Affinity
by Schmuzz
Summary: After The Outbreak, after James Heller, Alex is forced to admit that true understanding will always be out of reach; he will always be both more and less than the rest of humanity. At least until now. Because now, he may have just found The Cure...
1. Part I: Alias

**A/N: I am not too ashamed to admit that I am a selfish person; writing _Affinity_ has been great fun, and almost every minute of it has been a blast, but this was written only _mostly_ for myself - and well, so many people to thank, so little desire to inflict a long block of bold upon any new readers: Oh well, tough luck, and so a big thanks to people like _ThePieFairy_, _TwilightSymphony_, _FuzzySeduction_, _Scarletina_, _doodle808_, _Miss Interrogative_, _SushiMao_, and everyone else who has read this story and enjoyed it enough to favorite it, put it on alert, or review it - plus a special amount of gratitude towards _Sunburned-Stickperson_, who is incredibly likeable and probably super attratcitve in real life; Flip - an anon who had some wonderful things to say, and Laluzi, with whom I have shared a lot of great Private Chats with, and who has unknowingly inspired probably, like, third of the plot in this. You are all great and deserve a pat on the back, followed by maybe a Swedish massage.**

**_ Anyway_-**

**xxxx**_  
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_January, 2012_

It had been nearly three years since Alex Mercer had died. It had been two years and seven months exactly, since the Blacklight virus had infected Alex Mercer's corpse – so that later he was awaking in the morgue and searching for answers. It had been that long since he had combed through New York City – had been hunted down as a national threat, killing both innocent and disgusting human beings.

It was deep into winter now, and the Blacklight Virus that identified itself as Alex Mercer had been living with his sister in a relatively new apartment, a mile north of Columbus Circle, deep in the West Side, where there had been heavy repairs after The Outbreak. There was no need for being in a safe house, anymore. According to the news feed, and all 'reliable resources' it was the strong will of America's soldiers that finally stopped the strange onslaught of the horrendous virus. "Cunning minds rival to those that worked on the Manhattan Project..." It was a great confidence booster, compared to civil wars breaking out in Africa and the Middle East; the good versus evil battle for the Big Apple had left many people hopeful.

Alex wasn't really in that category.

It had been difficult, learning what he was. In a way, he had come to terms with the fact that he was less of a human, or perhaps more of one. But he still knew he was _different_ from everyone else. His sister always supported him when he needed it, and gave him space when he wished for that, too. There was sympathy, but no empathy there. He knew that was something he would have to live with – no one truly being able to connect with what happened to him. And over the years he found himself slowly starting to reform into how a regular person would act.

But sometimes, he needed a little push.

"You know I would do anything for you," he said to his sister, looking up from his hunched position on the living room couch. "But I think that getting me a social life shouldn't be one of those things that you'll force me to do."

Dana crossed her arms. "Alex," she started to use that stern, motherly tone on him, crinkling her icy eyes. "All you do is perch on the rooftops like fucking Batman on causal day. I know it's hard for you to interact with other people, but going out is a good way to start. You can't just stare down at Times Square for the rest of your life."

"I wonder how long that'll be," he muttered. If he had to guess, he was probably immortal, or pretty damn close. "And I don't go to Times Square..." he added sullenly.

"Central Park; Harlem; the ports by The Hudson - whatever,"

He sighed. "What did you have in mind?"

"It's Sunday night. Let's go get a drink."

"What, at a bar?"

"Yeah, there's plenty around here. Try and strike up a conversation with someone, make some friends – if you want to fit in, that's what people _do._"

The idea of going up to a stranger and bonding with them made his fingers twitch. "Sounds… weird."

"We can go somewhere casual. I'll be there to make sure you don't do anything crazy." She moved to her room. "I'm going to change, Alex. We can head out in half an hour." Alex scowled, knowing that if he tried to escape, he'd just get an earful later, and if he stayed, someone as headstrong as Dana would somehow manage to call in a SWAT team to drag him to some establishment. He let out a small growl.

"And stop acting so depressed. One night's not gonna kill you." she half shouted, two rooms over.

His frown deepened.

**xxxx**

"So, what is this place?" Alex followed Dana's back, listening to her heels click determinedly on the pavement. They stopped at a four story building somewhere on 14th street; just above Greenwhich - an ideal place to put a bar, since college kids and twenty-somethings living in the area tended to flock to the closest establishment. The building was one of those old apartment houses and store fronts; split down the middle with an indoor wall. One side was a restaurant, and the other had tinted green windows, with two small lights lamps on either side of the bar's polished sign.

"_Mkinley's_. It's a pub. A small, sort-of-quiet pub that serves regular people that you can just talk with about trivial things like sports and weather…"

Alex lidded his eyes. "How did you even get me to agree…"

She turned around. "Look, I'm trying to _help_ you, Alex, but you can't just keep on living like… a _sociopath_ – not unless you want to be on some mega watch list in the Pentagon. _Again_. Can't you see that-" The door to the bar swung open, and a couple came out, holding onto one another in the bitter January air. They were laughing. Alex and Dana silently watched them lean into each other's sides, moving slowly down the sidewalk.

"All right," Alex said after a moment, finally facing his sister. With some finality, he opened the door for himself and Dana. They both sat at the bar, two stools in between them, Dana faced away from him like a stranger, more or less forcing him to fend for himself.

After a moment a bartender approached. "Can I get you anything?" he asked Dana. Her lips muttered something, but two men to the right of Alex had picked that moment to laugh a little too loudly for him to hear.

Alex kept his head down. He himself had merely seen others drink alcohol. Mentally, he recalled dozens of consumed memories – box wine and daiquiris and the art of the Mixed Drink; whatever happened afterwards tended to be slightly disturbing memory flashes that he attempted to ignore. By the time the bartender was asking him about his order, he slowly said, "A scotch on the rocks," picking up a name that seemed suitable.

"Would you like that neat, sir?"

That was when the other lost Alex. He didn't really have time to search through a hundred minds; hoping one of them was a whiskey connoisseur. "Whatever you recommend." The barkeep kindly stepped away, and Alex dug his hands into the thighs of his jeans before deciding to look around.

The bar's lights were low enough to just mime four o'clock evening shadows on the booths and two, abandoned pool tables – though the liquor shelf was covered with mirrors and colorful bottles with showcase lighting.

There was a warm glow in the creamy walls and dark wood counters. The floor looked clean and the twenty people in the bar weren't at the intoxicant level to start making asses of themselves; some of them were hung over their drinks, talking, or a few had turned their attention to a small television hanging in the left corner of the establishment.

"Your drink, sir." Alex turned to find his small glass. He sniffed it gingerly before bringing it to his lips.

The scotch was cold going down, but made a small fire from his tongue to the roof of his mouth, all the way down his throat. Another sip let the acidic warmth spread out like a curling presence into his lungs, the sharp tang on his nose and rising up into his head like smoke.

He recognized this flavor, briefly tasting it in the blood he had consumed: The homeless and late night partyers that hadn't bothered with taxis or subways that night. He remembered them all with some difficulty and half a headache; that time before he had bothered to regret such atrocities on innocent civilians, before his humanity ever really existed.

But the taste was intense, and within the first five minutes he had finished his glass and asked for another.

And another.

And another.

Eventually he had lost count and conveniently found out that Blacklight viruses couldn't get intoxicated, though those two men from before were beginning to give him odd looks, and he caught his sister doing the same. But he didn't sway or nearly throw up or act any different than when he had first walked in about an hour ago.

The only change was an ebbing feeling of exhaustion, as if he had exerted himself, pounding drinks. But that feeling was ignored as he pressed the bartender for another refill.

But this time he didn't respond with a 'yes, sir' or 'right away, sir' and he could see the black button up shirt in front of him not moving. He finally lifted his eyes, actually studying the man who, up until this point, had been just as noticeable to Alex as the knots in the glossy, wooden counter he sat at.

The man was dressed simply with closely cut brown hair – slightly darker than his with matching eyes and tanned skin;and he thought he saw the outline of a needle-thick scar, right on the corner of his mouth. He was furrowing his brows, slightly.

"Are you sure you haven't had enough, sir?" The two men to his right had suddenly picked up their drinks; waiting for a signal.

"Why would you say that?" They began to thickly swallow their auburn colored beer in tall, sweating glasses, though Alex wasn't sure why.

"You've had five glasses." The other added gently, sliding away the glass cautiously. "You should be thirsty. Would you like some water?"

Alex swallowed and noticed the crinkling in his tongue, which didn't really make sense to him; after all, he had just been drinking fluids – why would that make his mouth feel like the Sahara? The two men had slammed a few bills down on the table, quickly calling another bartender over. They had enough dignity to not _run_ out of the bar, but Alex could feel their apprehension.

Did they think he was going to fight the man working over the counter? For more scotch? He tried to casually look at the jacket he wore, maybe there were some blood stains that he had forgotten about…

"Excuse me, sir-"

Alex looked back. The other man was still there; he didn't seem nervous. Cautious, but not nervous. Sitting up a bit straighter, Alex shook his head.

"No, you're right. Some water would be fine, thanks."

He could feel Dana stare at his profile, but he ignored her, like they really were strangers.

**xxxx**

The bar had, finally, begun to thin out. A few stragglers were cozy in their booths, talking and laughing, letting it carry over the news feed playing on screen. Dana had gone off, to the bathroom, and Alex had decided to leave with her after she came out.

He had planned to explain to her that he couldn't just snap his fingers and 'fit in' with everyone else. He needed time, and while coming to the bar was a good idea, he would have preferred if he just worked it out himself. Running over the words in his head, he didn't notice the bartender lean beside him until he had already started talking.

"There are a lot of riots in Southern Africa, right now," he said lightly. Alex turned and saw him staring at the TV, blue and red bars at the bottom of the screen showed weather closings for a few schools, while a blonde woman narrated several riots that had broken out abroad. "It sort of feels like the world is ending," he offered.

"Were you here for The Outbreak?" The other man shook his head.

"I had gotten in just when things were wrapping up. I saw a lot of footage, though. Those… things. It was horrible, watching people get torn in half, civilians being gunned down… I didn't really want to come here, but the news said it was safe enough."

"Do you think they're the most reliable?"

The man smiled. "No, probably not. But I needed a new job and, well, I mean it sounds bad, but with practical genocide going on, there were a lot of apartments available for really cheap. Places that needed new employees, too."

Alex nodded. "I guess that's true." He blinked, realizing he just spent two minutes talking to someone he didn't know. It was easy. Easier than he had thought. He looked at the other man, who was still bent at the waist, leaning over the wood. "So you're a bartender?"

"Stock investor, actually. But I like to keep a low profile… relax, I was joking. Jeez, some look you just gave me. Yes, I'm a bartender. I picked it up in college – it was a good way to earn cash; gave me a good excuse to get afternoon classes, too."

"Have you graduated yet?"

"I don't look that young, do I? I graduated oh, last summer… Down in Florida. But then the new freshman started coming in, and I got fired." He struck a sharp glance at the wall.

"Bitter?"

"Yeah… It's really cold up here, compared to the Sunshine State, at least."

"Well it's not like you came at the best time," Alex offered passively, by now the two had shifted, and Alex was facing the other man like he was about to order another drink.

"That's true. How are the summers here?"

"The city is like an oven, I'm sure you won't be disappointed." They both had smiles on their faces. Tiny, protective smiles without teeth. It was just a random, harmless conversation, Alex knew, but now he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

**xxxx**

Dana had walked back into the bar finding her brother staring down the bartender, who was currently in a monologue about how ice ruins a glass of scotch, gesturing and holding Alex's glass. Occasionally the other would say something back, and get a laugh or a correction followed by animated points and gestures.

They both looked like they were enjoying one another's company, and Dana tried to sneak into her seat in a way so that neither would notice her and stop talking, but as soon as she approached the pair, Alex had turned. "Oh, there you are." He said simply, standing up. "Are you ready to leave?"

Dana looked between her brother and the other man. "I…uh, yeah, sure. Let's go." It was late, anyway, she figured.

The bartender touched Alex's arm to get his attention. "Thanks for putting up with me for so long," he held out his hand, and Alex didn't even stare at it questioningly before grasping it in a handshake.

"No problem. I don't know anything about drinking, so it's nice to have a teacher." He slowly let go of the other's hand before saying, "My name's Alex, by the way." He decided to leave out his last name.

"Jonathan Fetcher." The other man said. "Nice meeting you."

**xxxx**

**A/N: **_**Affinity**_** works as a branching story that takes place between the end of Prototype 1 and 2, and before the first Assassin's Creed game. The pairing will be Alex/Desmond... At some point. We'll get there.**


	2. Part II: Normalcy

It was Friday. Dana was in front of a long mirror in the foyer. She was sticking in a pair of earrings; her skirt was long and dark, and on the chair next to her there was a newly bought matching coat that had two rows of shiny buttons down the front.

"Date?" Alex said, sitting on the couch and watching another news report. There had been more uprisings in Nigeria, Kenya, and South Africa now; a man began listing off a series of names that made him tune out to the program.

"Nope. Business meeting. I'm trying to sell a couple of articles to a magazine publisher. You know, the ones about Abstergo Industries?" Alex could remember Dana speaking passionately about that company; furiously typing at her computer, or scribbling something on a post-it note. Once she started to pry her eyes wider to get in a colored contact, Alex felt the need to ask.

"Why do you need a disguise?"

"They're like Gentek, Alex. I'm sure of it. It's probably better if I don't draw attention to myself. I'm using a fake name, by the way, and a throw away phone, so don't call me tonight, okay?"

"What if you get into trouble?"

"I won't. Not yet, at least." She began to brush her hair back, putting a mesh net over her head before putting on a long blonde wig that had been hiding somewhere by the coat. "Gentek was way more… brash - and violent. I don't think Abstergo is going to have the fucking military coming in to gun me and the whole restaurant down. But I might have to stay at a friend's house, tonight. Just to throw them off. I'll be back by tomorrow, though – and still in one piece." She walked over to him, and if he hadn't seen her transform, he would have sworn that they weren't even distant _cousins_; much less siblings.

"You don't look like yourself." he said after a moment.

"Good," she began to stalk towards the door.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, already imagining the various scenarios that mostly ended with his sister in a body bag.

She turned back to look at him. "I became an investigative reporter for a reason, Alex. It's been a while since I've had anything to write about," he looked away; the both of them knew she was making up a few years of her life – and then there was this gnawing guilt he started to feel, deep in his stomach – the one that Dana told him shouldn't be there. He didn't really know what it felt like, to be that dedicated to something like Dana was – at least nothing that he cared to dwell on for very long. He had decided a while ago that, when it came to Dana's career path, the least he could do was not stand in her way.

"All right," he said at length, watching her slip on the thick coat.

"Do you have any plans?" she asked, maybe just to be polite.

Alex paused, about to ask why Dana would think that someone like him would make plans, but then a small bar in lower Manhattan flashed in his mind. He looked out at the dark winter weather, and with an air of finality said, "Yes, actually; I do."

**xxxx**

Alex walked into the warm room and contemplated walking right back out again.

There was only one bartender on duty, and it was a woman with auburn hair tied up into a tight ponytail. He hesitated a moment before feeling bar door pushing up against his back. He jumped, turning around, and saw Jonathan nearly walk into him.

"Oh," he said. A few seconds ticked by and then his eyes went wide. "Oh! Sorry, Alex, was it? From last Sunday?"

"Yeah… are you working?"

Jonathan looked down at the black shirt and pants he was wearing, identical to the one from last week. "Uh-huh. With Cynthia, over there," he pointed, sidestepping away and getting behind the bar. He had a coat under his arm, and as he went to hang it up he muttered "Sorry I'm late," to the woman, who nodded, before going over to the other side of the tavern.

Alex sat down and let himself work up a smile as Jonathan gravitated to his seat. "We get a lot of people here on Fridays. They like to keep the place well stocked." He explained.

"Right."

"Do you want anything?"

"Can I try some vodka and tonic?"

Jonathan smiled. "Yeah, sure."

**xxxx**

It was eleven thirty at night, and Alex had successfully managed to drag Jonathan away from his job enough times that he could only really hover around the place Alex was sitting. He was on his second vodka tonic; going much slower than before and making an attempt to savor the burn he felt.

"I hope you don't get fired because of me," he joked. Jonathan slid his gaze over to Cynthia, and another woman who had come in a few hours ago. They were talking to one another; Cynthia was pouring a few shots for a group at the booth.

"Nah, I think it's a bit slow, today, actually…" he looked out the tinted windows, furrowing his eyebrows. "I just got here, and it feels like everyone in New York is starting to move away again."

Alex bobbed his head a bit. Emigration rates had been growing ever since last year. He watched Jonathan turn back towards his boss. "Hey, Cynthia?" She stared at him, holding the liquor bottle poised over the trays. "Do you think I can leave early tonight?"

She sighed, looking around. "Stick around for a little longer, Jon. If we don't get a stream of college kids, I'll let you out at one."

"Thanks," he turned back to Alex.

"How long do you stay out?"

Jonathan glanced upwards, as if visualizing the work schedule in his head. "I work from four to one on Wednesdays and Thursdays, six to three on Fridays and Saturdays, and seven to one on Sundays. Then I'm off for the rest of the week – unless we get desperate, at least."

"That sounds like a messed up sleeping schedule."

"You get used to it, I guess."

Alex hummed in a neutral tone.

"You sound like you've never pulled an all-nighter before."

In reality, the original Alex Mercer had probably spent half of his life pulling all-nighters, but he didn't admit to that. "Not really. I did get a job as-" he pulled up a random occupation. "- An insurance consultant. It's boring enough that I could probably pass out like I just had an all-nighter." Jonathan let out a chuckle.

"A consultant? Talking on phones with people all day sounds pretty… frustrating."

"I'm not really a social person, no. But _you_ don't seem that outgoing, either."

"I'm not. Well, I don't mind talking to people." He gestured between the both of them. "I just… don't like causing scenes."

"Oh yeah," Alex muttered, picking up his drink. "I know all about that."

**xxxx**

"Shit, I'm sorry!" There was a lone girl at the counter with a short blue dress and cherry-red hair. She had turned around to talk to someone and ended up spilling her pink Cosmo all over the counter. She shifted and glanced worriedly around to Alex and Jonathan – the only two at that end of the bar – "Do you have a rag?"

Jonathan rolled up his sleeves and pulled one out of his back pocket, patiently soaking up the liqueur and fruit juice. "Hey, no problem; do you want a refill?"

"Um, no – no… I'm just gonna – can I have my bill?"

"Sure," Jonathan stepped away to get the girl's tab. She stayed put in her seat, staring at the pink, tinted glass. "Heh, how embarrassing!" she said, practically shouting to Alex.

He had been drinking a tall glass of seltzer, feeling the bubbles on his tongue and listening to the fizz in his mouth. He gave a polite smile; it slipped on easily enough, like his leather jacket. As she stood and wobbled in a slightly off kiltered manner, she hastily cleared her bill and left; Alex realized he had forgotten to let his face revert back to its default scowl during that entire episode.

"I heard that you use less muscles smiling than any other facial expression," Jonathan added, spraying down the counter with cleaning solution. That made Alex's face curl back into its normal grimace.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo," he observed; the thick black ink spread up most of Jonathan's left forearm. "You didn't seem the type to go for tribal symbols,"

"Have you _seen_ the back of your jacket, lately?"

"_You_ have?"

"Whenever you turn around, sure. I was eighteen – what do you want from me?"

"Trying to stick it to your parents?" Jonathan gave an aside glance.

"…That's it."

Since certain biological rules didn't apply to him, Alex could brave both sub-zero temperatures and stifling heat without changing his outfit much. He kept his leather jacket because he liked it – regardless if that made him more recognizable. Alex stared at his clear water, then back at Jonathan. He had managed to fall under the show lights of the bar, and Alex saw the small knick on the other man's mouth again. Truth be told, he had simply forgotten about it – scars were pretty normal things, although having it on your face was usually unlucky. Jonathan's at least, was small.

"And you have a scar on your lip – noticing all sorts of stuff about you, today."

"Well, it's not exactly like I'm hiding it," Jonathan offered, putting a hand to his lips absent mindedly

"I guess I just never noticed." He said nonchalantly. If he could lie about having a job, he could lie about this, he figured. He watched Jonathan start moving around again. "How'd you get it, anyway?"

"Accident."

"Wow, I never knew I could get such a specific detail out of your life so soon, Jonathan – tell me more."

"He _obviously_ doesn't want to talk about it," someone said from behind Alex. He looked and saw Cynthia; an empty tray tucked under her arm. She had her lips set up in a thin line; her eyes hard pinpricks.

"He was just joking, Cynthia," Jonathan offered.

"Yeah, sure. Hey, Jon – it's slow, I'm gonna let you out now."

"I can stay-"

"No worries, I'll take care of your friend here," she stared hard at Alex, as if trying to remember if she knew him or not. The scrutiny made him want to fidget: In the months that followed the Infection, there had been a grotesque amount of apprehension between him and civilians. Some of them would just subtly glance at him, and whisper amongst themselves; others had called him out – and there was one occasion where someone had called the police, believing that he had managed to escape some Grade A military prison, or something along those lines. That had been one of the reasons why he refused to go out; he figured it would be a lot more pleasant for everyone if he had limited his public appearances. Although nowadays, not a lot of people seemed that bothered by him – or maybe they just forgot what he looked like. But the look Cynthia kept on shooting at him made those awkward moments rise up in his psyche; and in a way that made him think that the both of them would probably not become friends any time soon.

Jonathan just ended up giving an awkward goodbye to Alex, and he slipped out, a white hoodie wrapped around him. He and Cynthia watched him go in silence, before she slid behind the bar.

"He needs another coat," Alex said at length.

"It's not really that cold in Florida; why would he have gotten one?" Cynthia shot back. "Jonathan's doing _fine_. He doesn't need _your_ help." She gave Alex his bill, as if she knew that he was going to head home as soon as he didn't have Jon to talk to – and that much was true. He slammed a twenty on the table, not bothering to wait for his change. Zipping up his coat, he felt the icy winds rushing at him as he spotted a skyscraper that would be a good starting point for his unique way of getting home.

_Yeah, but I do_. He thought finally, beginning his ascent.

**xxxx**


	3. Part III: Brought to a Knife Fight

It had been a month since Alex had first talked with Jonathan – now the cold and dark streets of New York Zero were lined with snow in the frigid February weather. And as the weeks went on, Alex found himself holed up in Mkinley's more and more; letting the night slip by as he talked with his new friend. It was fun, 'playing human' as Dana jokingly put it.

"You go in there and suddenly you're not Alex Mercer," she had said on observation. Alex, however, wasn't so sure about that. It had just been _easy_, for him and Jonathan to talk. But there were things – too many things – that he had to lie about, or make up. And sometimes he could feel his tongue slipping over the words on occasion, as he tried to remember the ersatz stitchings of a past he gave himself.

It was ironic that through the strings of lies he'd made, Alex had found someone he could trust.

**xxxx**

"It's Thursday," Jonathan observed, setting a glass down. "You've been here a while - what about work?"

"I got Friday off," what was his – oh, consultant, yes.

The bar had been full to bursting the time Alex had arrived around five thirty until, well, now. He'd only get flashes of the other man passing by, and sometimes Alex found himself tossing in a few brief comments to the conversations around him. Occasionally he would get glares, but other times he'd get a dry laugh or a smile between swigs of beer.

By now it was close to two thirty in the morning. He had been watching Cynthia sweep up the floors when Jonathan had finally stopped by his seat.

"When do you guys close?"

"Half an hour ago. And we stopped serving thirty minutes before then," Cynthia muttered, eyeballing Alex's stirred martini. Jon began scrubbing the counters with a white towel – the last twenty minutes had more or less been designated as a time to clean the bar for the next shift tomorrow.

"C'mon Cynthia – Alex doesn't even _get_ drunk, he probably just pours it down his jacket into a secret compartment when no one's looking. Alex nodded, nose in his glass. "Besides, he's taking me home.

"What, are you two on a date?"

Jonathan was man enough not to go red, but he did make a slight sputtering sound. "No," he lamely replied. He gave Alex a pleading look.

"Well…" Alex glanced off into space for a few seconds: the walking home together thing was new to him – in the sense that he hadn't been made aware of it until five seconds ago; he didn't mind, though. "…It's pretty late out – and it's not like Jon lives on _Fifth Avenue_," he glanced to Jonathan, hoping that the bartender didn't take that remark as an insult.

"It's true. I live half a mile south of here – a little off of Canal Street." He said quietly.

"See? The streets are swarming with _thugs and pickpockets_ during the day, imagine what the _nights_ are like," Alex offered, trying to accentuate the dreariness of the statement, ignoring Jonathan's wince.

"Oh. So you're gonna protect him?" Cynthia asked, a fist on her hip.

Alex smiled, holding his hand up in a calming gesture, though with Cynthia it probably wouldn't do any good. "With my life,"

**xxxx**

"This place is like a wind tunnel."

"Harlem's even worse."

"Do you live there?"

Alex glanced sideways, staring at Jonathan, who had wrapped himself up in his custom white sweatshirt. His biceps were scrunched up at his sides and his fists were fixed in his pockets. "No. I've just been around."

"Oh," he paused. "So then, where _do_ you live?"

"Not far from here. Which, according to your size of scale, seems to include any place in Manhattan, right?"

"Shut up." Jonathan grumbled. "It's only ten more blocks – I didn't feel like switching trains, okay? And _I've_ been complaining more about the _cold_ than _you're _complainingabout the distance."

"True…" They turned right, into a smaller street with five story tall brick buildings. The street lights had either been burnt or shot out – the entire alley was dark. "Do you go down here?"

"Sometimes. As a short cut."

"That sounds safe…" Alex squinted, trying to determine if those shadows in the back of the street were wilted tree limbs or people. His ears were perked; listening for something, something…

"Look, alleyways at night aren't exactly the smartest move," Jonathan began, taking a few unafraid steps into the dark, Alex moved to quickly get behind him, staring intently into his white back, listening to everything around them. "But I'm cold, and this cuts down the walk by a good five minutes."

"Did you just hear something?" Alex had stopped on the pavement. Jonathan turned around, now walking backwards to stare at his friend.

"Hear what?"

Alex felt his jaw clench unconsciously; an instinct. _Shit_

He saw Jonathan get pulled by his hood with enough force to send most people crashing. He only stumbled, though, as if he had that same instinctual feeling of danger. "Behind you!" Jonathan shouted. Alex could hear an odd hiss directly following him; he spun around and grabbed a man's arm, which was holding a blade. He threw the attacker down, onto the pavement; watching briefly as the man dropped the knife in favor of clutching at his torso, and gasping like a fish.

_When had he last done something like this?_ He thought, barely forming a conscious consideration as his blood began racing and his breathing got more drawn out; deeper. There was that old, familiar feeling seeping right back into his limbs again: The increased senses; the speed and agility; the strength; all of that had left him for two long years.

On impulse, he gave the man a harsh kick to the side.

Huh. Did he hear a _crack, _just then?

More importantly, did he _care_?

Turning around, he quickly set his eyes on Jonathan and began running towards the other man, who was busy pulling at his captor. Caught in a choke hold, the bartender's hands were harshly pushing against the arm at his neck, and his mouth was stretched wide open; if he wasn't cussing at his attacker then he looked like he was seriously contemplating whether or not to bite the stranger holding him.

Alex took another rushed step.

"Don't move." He heard a _click. _A click only a firearm makes. It was by his temple.

Of _course_.

"Ya did a numbah on Joey back there," the thug said. It sounded like a Brooklyn accent; probably a crook who took the recent grand scale emigration of New York as an excuse to play King of the Hill against other low-lifes. Alex mentally put him as the leader of the rudimentary gang that was attacking them. He couldn't turn his head to look at the gunman, but could only see Jon and his horrified look as he watched the gun held to Alex's head, waiting for it to go off.

Alex let out a breath, realizing that he could talk to the Jonathan for the rest of his life, and he still wouldn't know who he really was. The other man didn't even know his last _name; _let alone what that name had meant for most people in New York. Jonathan had told him once, in passing, that he had barely listened to the news reports about the Outbreak - he wasn't even close to the state at the time. He didn't know that Alex could rip out that man's throat and cleave the other's head off in three seconds flat. But if he did that, then what? Jonathan would probably try and get half the military on him. And he couldn't risk that.

So, now what could he do? Alex found himself desperately struggling to get back his rational thought – to try and control the anger and adrenaline that had so easily taken over. What could he do, what could he do, _whatcouldhedo_-

"Man if you can't hold tha guy, jus' _shoot_ 'im!" The makeshift leader hollered at his partner.

_Some things_, Alex decided, feeling the bloodlust emerge again, _were worth the risk._

Alex could hear the gunman's body _snap_ as he grasped the man's arm and slammed him into the ground. His gun was left to spin and slide into an undesignated dark corner of the street - to be found later, and probably by a forensics team with the way Alex was now feeling. He could see the depression in the worn asphalt the man's body had made. He had blood on his face.

"Shoot 'im! Just fuckin' shoot 'im!" He yelled to the man holding Jonathan. Alex turned and saw that Jon had been startled into a reaction again. He began to claw at his assailants arm, trying to make it hurt as much as he could. He was kicking whatever flesh he could find, stomping on toes, and playing tug of war with the thug's free hand so that he couldn't touch the small piece of metal sticking out like a broken, black bone from the man's waistband.

Jonathan finally threw the other man's arm off of him, stumbled back, and watched as Alex landed a punch right in the man's nose. He fell backward, his face just a red, dripping mess, to the point where no difference could be made between him and red Alex's fist.

The guy didn't even make a noise when he fell. There were bubbles, though, forming in the middle of his face. That meant he was breathing, at least.

But then Alex got down on his knees and punched the goon in the face _again_.

_And again, and again and again._

Now in the chest, the neck, Jonathan could feel the ribs fracturing, the breastbone splintering; he could practically hear the man's heart stop and his breathing halt.

He felt a hand go to his temple, and realized with a shock that it was his own – trying to calm himself down; trying to _process_ what had just happened.

_Was this a movie?_ He thought numbly.

He didn't hear any sirens. There were always sirens when this sort of thing happened, right?

In fact, he didn't hear anything; except Alex's rapid breathing, and his shoes scraping against the tar as he stood up.

Jonathan couldn't look at Alex, but instead watched as the other kicked half heartedly at the corpse – which really looked more like he was trying to _examine_ the body to know it was dead – which made the would-be murderer's coat fall back onto the pavement. He wore a thick, white shirt, his blood outlining an already red pattern in the center of his chest. Jonathan stood, and stared, and felt his knees turn into wobbling slabs of gel.

"Oh, God…" He took a step backwards, watching Alex, now, because looking at the carcass would make him pass out.

Alex had his hood removed, for once. It had come off some time during the fight. His hair was short and dark; his eyebrows were permanently furrowed. He managed to make a concerned face, despite it, clearly aimed at the bartender. He reached out his arm, palm open, fingers spread, like he was offering an invisible apple in time for a Renaissance painter to capture the scene.

Except his hands were soaked in a dead man's blood.

"I… I – are you all right?" Alex asked, letting the chill set deep into his bones as everything else slowly slipped away. He suddenly remembered that he was in a dark alleyway, with three dead or near dead men and his only friend, who looked scared to death. _Was_ scared to death, he reminded himself. Because of _him_.

Jonathan couldn't do anything but take another step back. The lane felt like a brick oven, now. Hot and smelling of the casualties; he couldn't bear it.

Alex slowly trailed after him, a red shadow. "…I won't hurt you… I… didn't mean to – scare you." He stepped even closer, trying to touch Jonathan's hand.

"Oh God…" Jonathan repeated, rapidly moving down the street. "Just… Please, don't…" He lurched, trying to find air that did not stink of the flesh or blood of the lifeless man.

Alex watched Jon's eyes, which somehow looked more horrified now than when he was in the hands of the gangster. The fear he saw kept Alex rooted to the spot. It was a look he had gotten before in frequent surges; back when he was the Blacklight Virus, not Alex. When he just tore through everything to get somewhere, when he just killed for the sake of killing.

He stared at Jonathan, _his friend_, stumble back with that scared look, before he just turned, and ran as fast as he could down the rest of the street, shoes echoing long after his back disappeared around the corner.

Alex didn't turn around for a few minutes, instead watching where his friend had once been. At least until he heard a little wheezing chuckle.

"Guess you're not gonna get lucky tonight, are ya, buddy?" Said the lead man, the one who had threatened Alex with the gun, from his little prison on the cratered cement road. Alex looked around the rest of the alley.

"Where's your pal, Joey?"

"Eh, he pranced back to HQ like a little bitch, I'm sure." He grabbed at his chest, trying to steady his breathing. "Ya shouldn't have let 'im go – you two make a great couple!" He began hacking a bit as he attempted a laugh, coughing up mucus and blood instead. He must have had internal bleeding, Alex figured, not feeling particularly bad about the fate of the man in front of him, instead, his sympathy for Jonathan only grew tenfold.

It didn't matter now.

Alex picked the man up, hearing his clothes peel off the road. "Where's headquarters?" he said, "Who are you working for? Gentek?" He added, as a cautionary impulse.

The man spit, barely missing Alex's face. "Gentek's old news, pal."

Alex slammed the man against the bricks; dust flew out. "_Who. Are. You working for?_"

"Eh, bite me,"

Alex felt the blood lust boiling under his skin again.

"Go make out with that queer prick," the man continued, as if he didn't remember who had slammed who into the ground in the first place.

Alex crunched his teeth, growling in his throat."

"What're ya? A dog? Ya gonna bite me, now?"

Alex figured there was no point in dragging this guy's life out anymore.

"Well, actually…" He let himself grin, stretching his mouth up just a few little centimeters.

He pulled up his hood.

**xxxx**

NYPD Officer Velasquez was a ten year veteran of the street police, whose career wasn't even halted for the Blacklight Virus Fiasco in June of '09, _or_ the other issue with James Heller the following year.

And yet, she found herself glad that her emergency 5:00 a.m. investigation had been assigned before she had eaten any breakfast, or else she might have seen some of it coming up.

"Jesus Christ," she said, sliding out of the car. She had left her dark apartment at an ungodly hour, to see blood splattered across the brick walls, body parts strewn out across the pavement, and another corpse decimated by blunt force trauma. She looked at the latter, first. "That sorry son of a bitch. Who do you think did this, Larson?"

Larson was considerably younger and considerably more disgusted than Velasquez, and it took major coaxing to even get him out of the car. "City's just going right down the shit-hole," he said in a confiding tone. They began to roll out the yellow tape across the one-car-wide street. It wasn't long before dog walkers and early morning commuters slowed and stared; like a Venn-diagram of Malicious Attack was on display to the general public.

"This guy," she nodded her head to the first victim they examined, a little further down the road. "Was just – punched to death. He probably died from getting his brains smashed in."

"Or blood loss," Larson added. "Look at his shirt."

"What about it?"

"That symbol's getting awfully familiar in the streets these days, isn't it?"

The two officers stared down at the pattern, both lost in their own minds for a few seconds. Velasquez looked down a bit further. "It looks like he was carrying a concealed weapon – probably didn't get to use it, though." They backed off, and slowly dragged themselves to the barely recognizable pieces of meat that had once been a human. "What about this… guy?"

"It looks like something… not human. Or_ animal_ did it." Larson said, as an afterthought.

"Do you think Alex Mercer is back in action?" Velasquez asked, taking off her rubber gloves, and stepping back towards the police car as she resigned herself to waiting for some forensics team to make an appearance. They had called in twenty minutes ago, but any law enforcement still around were spread so thin that the corpse had a fairly good chance of being decomposed by the time anyone else even arrived on scene.

Larson moved his head side to side in consideration; his navy beanie hiding all of his hair. "It's… possible. I thought government had tabs on him, though. Watched where he was going, and stuff."

Officer Velasquez turned away from the bloodbath and looked at the gray morning sky – now beginning to lighten. There was the promising smell of snow in the air; a sharp crispness against a dreary, late February day. The pale color of the atmosphere above her seemed to be mocking the splatters of dark and vulgar hues where she was.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Larson, but the world is starting to get sick of us, now. This whole city could be deserted in another year if things keep going the way they are. I don't think our government is in the position to do anything about anything – not even Blacklight. Hell, they couldn't really do anything about Mercer when he _was_ on TV twenty-four seven and millions of armed forces were swarming Manhattan looking for 'im."

Larson shuffled his feet, hands deep in his pockets. "Well, when you put it like that…"

Velasquez let out a puffy breath and watched it constrict and fall up into the air. "We're fucked." She said.

**xxxx**


	4. Part IV: Uncovering the Already Known

For Alex, the rest of the week refused to pass by in a blur. Every night, he would watch the city streets below – the black and brown and blondes of people's heads passing ignorantly below him; pinpricks on the street, and flecks of postage stamp sized cars flooding down the roads during rush hours; the scheduled traffic jams of the day rising and falling with the predictability of an ocean tide. There wasn't much to look at – especially not in the dead of winter, but he hopped along the rooftops and traveled through the poorer districts because sometimes there were shoot outs or car accidents where someone like him might actually have a part in helping, and that way he could focus on _something_. Something concrete, something he could touch – versus those other thoughts he had; ones that could only be viewed internally, in secret.

He tried not to spend too much time at home, but sometimes he would stick around for a few hours to keep his sister company; she could shut herself inside her room for days, working to get leaks on an article. He already knew that Dana had replaced two laptops since her investigation on Abstergo started. "Whenever I get onto their servers, a mal-ware virus just pops up," she explained. "I've searched the file name for the Trojan, too, but it looks like I'm the only one who's gotten it." She cracked her knuckles. "Aren't I just fucking lucky?" Still, she persisted. Alex realized that the more involved Dana was in her research, the less likely it was that she'd even notice his moping.

No Batman jokes, or invitations to hang out with her group of friends, or fists-on-hips blockade of the TV for one whole week.

Sadly, that was a record. And an impressive one, too.

"Hey, Alex?" Alex had sunken into the long couch in the living room. The TV had been unplugged, their multiple cell phones had their batteries removed, and anything more complex than a clock had been powered down, unplugged, and left with no energy source; stored somewhere in the furthest corners of the apartment.

Except for Dana's newest computer, which, judging by the price tag and lack of receipts, had to have been the Holy Grail for Hackers. The screen glowed blue against her face, lines of binary filling up the view.

This had gone on all morning. With no idle entertainment, Alex had managed to scavenge a book from Dana's College Literature classes. _Closing Time_, by Joseph Heller, had been folded and dog-eared so many times that Alex guessed it was either a favorite of Dana's or one that she couldn't get through. He had just reached the beginning of Milo Minderbender's multi-million dollar wedding when he got up.

"Are you looking at the Abstergo files?" He asked.

"Trying to. I got some help."

"A leak?" Alex watched as Dana leaned back into her chair, smiling.

"Oh, even better. Someone was willing to cooperate when I asked them for a disc that downloads employee files – you know, for the workers who stay at home."

"Are your persuasion methods the same as mine or did you do something an older brother should never hear about, ever?"

"I think my tactics were more on par with secret agents," Dana said, crossing her arms and trying to ignore the implication of her brother's last statement. A moment later, the Abstergo logo popped up with a welcoming _ding!_ before the home menu faded in.

"And you can trust this?" Alex asked, staring at the light blue background and the triangular insignia of the company.

"Well, it's a rather impressive fake-out, if it isn't… and at least now I _do_ know something's fucked up with this place," she nodded to a pile of papers to the right of her. "Check those out."

Alex leafed through the collected information – most of them looked like reports; all of them full of highlighted words and scribbled notes written by Dana.

"What's this?" There was a heavy stack of papers stapled together. He flipped through, and estimated there were at least one hundred pages in the stack. "A book?"

Dana looked over. "Almost. Some guy in the CIA was doing some research and found that," Alex stopped and took a look at the cover page, which looked more like a letter than anything else:

_"I'm hoping that this seems plausible to you, Sarah; if I could just stumble on this by accident, then why hasn't anyone else here made a note of it? Most monopolies have investments in other corporations, even if they're not related to their own purposes, but I've never seen a company spread itself so thoroughly into all available markets… Kraft, the Coca-Cola company – those might be understandable, but they've also invested in metalwork companies that create parts for satellites, among other things… what's also puzzling is that they have a large amount of stock in businesses that just seem like random choices for them, including but not unlimited to Abercrombie and Fitch; EMI Group and BMG record labels, and the cable company Comstatic. _

_ There is also an undeniable pattern within these arrangements: All of the brands have made a specific amount of revenue in the last decade or so, those that fall into a certain threshold of revenue are immediately contacted by Abstergo, while those that drop their earnings significantly are just as easily jilted. _

_ I have suspicions, and I only tell you this, Sarah, because we've been in the same department for years. I will have more information at a later date. Please keep this confidential…"_

The author's last name was Gary, according to the signature. The last name had been scratched out. "What happened to him?" Alex asked, carefully setting down the stack of papers, not liking the feeling in his stomach as he looked at them.

"Got fired two months after that was sent. No one has heard from him since. I've tried to find a last name to work with, but so far, I could only find _that_; there are at least 500 'Gary's' working in the branches of the CIA that I can actually get the employee registration files on… I found six that were marked as 'recently deceased' too, just in case you're wondering."

"And you really think this is a good idea?" Dana gave him a look before slumping back down in her seat; working through the archives.

"It's an _idea_, so that's better than what I had to go on before." She started scrolling down a page. "I couldn't even blow the lid on Gentek, Alex." He felt himself wince at the memory. She didn't even turn before she quickly added, "And don't make that face. I told you, _it's not your fault_. I just… lost a lot of time. And a lot of potential stories. So as far as Abstergo goes – I'm not stopping until I've hit fucking gold in this story. You know how I feel about my job." Funny, Alex hadn't really thought of Dana even having a job; sure, he'd seen royalty checks and magazine articles with her names on them, but somewhere between frantic, two a.m. phone calls and name searches online, and the actual spot somewhere in the _New York Times_, something happened that he was just never around for. Sometimes it was hard to connect the dots, in a manner of speaking.

But that didn't mean that she didn't believe in her job as strongly as some people believed in God – and sometimes, Alex was jealous of that; that she had something that she could so easily throw every part of herself into. He didn't have that.

Not anything that was constructive, at least.

"Yeah, I know," he said quietly, turning his attention back on the screen. "What are you doing now?"

"I checked out the work force," she muttered. A long list of pictures and blurbs showed on the screen before she went back to the home menu. "This is pretty barren, actually. There are some weird mission statements and memos, but a lot of them have redacted pieces to them… does no one trust the damn work force anymore?" On a whim, she selected an image gallery, showing the pristine cleanliness of Abstergo facilities around the world. "Oh look, this one's in Florence." She said dully, clicking on the picture.

It was a dark room with line after line of computers and desks, set entirely dark except for the wall sized window in the back. It was shaped like a cross; the sunset that must have taken place during the picture giving the window a tinted, scarlet look.

"Is Abstergo normally decorated with crosses?"

"I found a few pictures of the management wearing little red crosses on their collars and shit; I figured they were all just religious, or it was some company thing, I don't know. But this is…bizarre. It's like cult imagery, or something." She zoomed in on the picture. The edges of the cross came out a bit, at the slightest degrees, to perhaps give the abnormally shaped window more accents. Alex leaned in, thinking about the last time he had seen something like that.

Dana saw him staring. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing… I've just seen that symbol before."

"At a church?"

"No, a… thug had that right on his shirt. It was red, though."

Dana furrowed her eyebrows. "When was that?" she quickly went back to the gallery: Little images were dotted with the symbol, it looked like. It was an odd experience, picking out the image; sort of like if you get a new car, you were always seeing that same model driving around; it was something that would have gone unnoticed unless it was already on your mind; unless you were _looking_ for it.

Although for Alex, it felt like he had just been looking at that insignia in his nightmares.

"Last week. Jonathan and I ran into some…" Alex realized too late where this was going. "…trouble." He finished lamely, as he waited for his sister's reaction.

"You _didn't_." Dana said, swiveling around in her chair mid key-stroke, making Alex step back. Her neutral face was quickly replaced with one of anger."Tell me you didn't rip the '_trouble'_ apart limb by fucking limb, Alex. Especially not with Jonathan watching."

"…Not while Jon was there. He ran off before-"

"Oh Jesus Christ!" She groaned out. "What were you thinking? Why did you do that?" she hissed out.

"I did what I had to! They pulled a gun on him – on both of us. Was I just supposed to let him get shot?" Alex could feel the hot rage rising up in the both of them; icicle eyes glaring at their spear counterparts. Alex tore away first, feeling embarrassment that had been covered up for the last week by blood lust and satisfaction of that. Why hadn't he felt horrified until now, when Dana was chastising him for it? "It doesn't matter," he said in a somber tone. "Jonathan is safe and he'll never see me again. I'll make sure of that." After the Outbreak, Alex had thought he had put consumption behind him: He didn't need to… _do_ that anymore. He wasn't looking for revenge or answers; he was just looking for a life. And as hard as he tried, it didn't seem like he was going to find one. He turned away from Dana and began to walk towards the balcony window. Just before he could force himself from the apartment, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What?" Alex asked, impatient to leave the confrontation scene.

"You thought leaving was the best option?" Dana said, squinting her eyes at him, trying to see what he was thinking.

"What could I have done? Held him back, tell him that I wasn't going to rip him to pieces?" Alex sighed, feeling an odd weariness rise up inside of him; one that wasn't from physical exertion. He just felt _tired._ "Bringing me out to a bar in the first place – it was just a bad idea, Dana. I can't pretend to be like everyone else. I'm not going to hide who I am so I can have a goddamn social life."

Dana looked pleadingly at her brother. "Alex, Jonathan was your _friend_! You said it yourself." She led the both of them back to the couch. Alex picked up the novel as a way to focus on something besides the lecture transmitting right into his ears. "Maybe you aren't a social person – the other Alex wasn't," Dana carefully avoided words like 'first' or 'original' when talking about her human brother. "But interacting with people is a part of life, even _your_ life. There's going to be things you can't tell me, and there are going to be problems you can't solve on your own; _that's why you have friends_." Dana smiled, though her brother couldn't see it, and knocked into his side lightly with her arm. "You and Jonathan? You two just talk for fucking hours about _nothing_. He makes you smile – I've seen it. And you can make him laugh. My brother! Telling jokes?" she let out a small snort of her own, as if in awe of the idea. "He's only been here in the city for a few months," she added. "Plus, _he_ doesn't have a sister to go to.

Alex, who had been splitting his gaze between the book in his hands and his shoes, finally asked, "So what should I do?"

"Find him. Go back to the bar and tell him you didn't want to freak him out – tell him he's your friend. Tell him you are the fucking Blacklight Virus if you have to. Just let him understand you."

"And what if he calls an air strike on me?"

Dana shrugged. "Then you back off. People are finicky. And I mean, most people would actually probably do that if you told them who you are. But I have a good feeling about Jon… I think he might want to try and _talk_ to you, at least."

"Of course you do."

"Your instincts sense danger, mine sense whether or not a person is a douchebag."

Alex got to his feet. "Sounds handy." He looked at the apartment door for a minute.

"Well? What are you waiting for? He's not going to go on a fucking scavenger hunt for _you_!" She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. Alex's scowl grew a bit.

"You've been ordering me around a lot, lately."

Dana rolled her shoulders, looking too smug for her expression to be called, 'nonchalant'. "What can I say? The big brother is indebted to the baby sister from birth – that's another weird human thing. Now hurry up before I call Mom."

Alex Mercer had enough experience to know when Dana was using sarcasm on him, and figured that he would actually heed her advice and head out to Mkinley's. Dana watched him walk into the foyer, open the door, and head out before she let out a long breath, rubbing her forehead. She trudged back to the computer and sat down heavily, sinking into the desk chair; letting her body settle into the familiar folds and curves of the seat. She glared at the stack of papers to her side; all slightly out of order after Alex had leafed through them.

She jiggled the mouse a bit, watching the employee program flash back on. Rubbing her eyes at the sudden burst of artificial light, she settled back into her typical, slightly hunched position; one hand cradling her chin, the other on the mouse.

It was going to be a long day.

**xxxx**

**A/N: _Closing Time_ is a sequel to Heller's most famous work, _Catch-22;_ which more or less satirizes WW II and our fascination with war and how the military is run - the guy was actually a bombardier. _Closing Time_ follows three of the _Catch-22_ characters, decades after the war, where they're left to figure out what to do with themselves after they can no longer fight as they live in the now decrepit shambles of New York City... It touched on a few themes that this story might. Also, his last name. There was also that.**


	5. Part V: Cat Fight

Alex saw his apprehensive face reflecting off the green glass windows of McKinley's and realized that the hardest part of his endeavor was not convincing himself to get there, or even getting to the bar itself, but actually just going forward a few steps and opening a door.

A _door_.

Not even a _locked_ door, either.

What was Jonathan Fetcher doing to him?

Making him a monster and a coward, he supposed silently as he rocked side to side on his feet. He figured, after a moment, that this stuttering, anxious behavior of his couldn't go on any longer and he should just get the damn thing over with. Otherwise, he'd be waiting out in the frigid temperatures until Jonathan got off his shift in six hours or so.

With such steeling encouragement in his head, he was ready to open the bar's door.

However, as he reached for the handle, it swung open from the inside, and Cynthia came out, wearing a sour look. It went pretty well with her apron, Alex thought.

"You," she spat, jabbing a finger inches from Alex's chest. "What did you do to Jonathan?"

Alex had to wait a moment to calm himself. "Wait, what happened to Jonathan? Is he alright?" He could sense this horrible feeling spreading through his stomach, up to his chest as he asked, and he found himself looking around, wondering if Jonathan was inside, either hiding or preparing to come out at any second. The door had long since slammed shut, however, and Alex quickly found his focus back on Cynthia as she moved.

She crossed her arms; she was holding an envelope in one hand. "I guess he's fine," she said in an ersatz manner. "– Except for the fact that he's scared out of his _fucking_ mind. He just came in four days ago and said he was moving and that he quit. He didn't say why, he didn't give us a two week – hell, even a one week notice! And I had to practically _wrestle_ him to get a mailing address for this!" She waved the envelope in the air. "He was _fine_ until last week, when he walked home with _you._" She took a step towards him; her thin body seemed to grow larger and more menacing as she glared at him, trying to drill holes into his face. "Well?"

"I don't-"

"Don't even _try_ bullshitting me." Cynthia gave a strong shove to his chest, sending him nearly into the street. He certainly wasn't expecting _that_, and the bartender was stronger than she looked. "If you laid a finger on Jonathan, I swear to God-"

"I didn't touch him!" Alex shouted back. "I never did. I didn't hurt him; I would never want to hurt him…" He blinked quickly, trying to not get too carried away. Even Cynthia gave him an odd look. For a moment there, he had sounded so… broken.

"Well, you must have done something," she said in a stubborn manner.

"Cynthia, I know that you've never liked me," she gave him a deadpan look. "But we both would never want anything _bad_ to happen to Jonathan, right?" She glanced to the side, and her face calmed down by a few degrees.

"Damn right I wouldn't. But something happened that night. And he wouldn't tell _me_ anything. And if you know anything about what's scaring Jonathan, you'd better-"

"I'll tell you! Really! I was… I just came down here to make sure he was okay."

"Well, he's not."

Alex slumped his shoulders, sighing and trying to hold in his exasperation. "Yes, I see that, thank-you." He rubbed his mouth with his hand, and spoke in a quiet voice. "We had been talking – about the weather. Right, he was complaining about the weather, and I had asked him where he lived," Cynthia started to glare at him again. "Because it was cold and I wasn't exactly looking forward to being outside another half hour, so I just wanted to know how much longer of a walk it would take."

"And then what?" She pressed.

Alex had to pause for a moment. It was true that he didn't harm Jonathan, but he did consume one man and murder another in cold blood. Alex himself had seen a brief snippet about that on Friday afternoon – there had been so many murders and break ins and fires as of late that they all sort of meshed together like some bloody jig-saw puzzle, but his work had been particularly brutal. Alex knew he couldn't tell the whole truth, but figuring what to keep secret was the hard part.

"Well…?"

"Sorry, I'm just, trying to remember. We were on… Leonard and Church Street, I think. And there was an alley there that cut the city block in half. He wanted to go through it."

"He thought that was a good idea? You let him do that?"

"He said he used it all the time! I figured – I mean, he wasn't nervous or anything, he knew the neighborhood more than me." He let out a long breath through his nose; Cynthia shifted, crossing her arms tighter in the cold.

"And then… three guys came at us. Gang members – maybe from Brooklyn-"

"You got attacked?"

"Yes. One of them got Jonathan in a choke hold, and another one…" he guessed what to say. "He was coming towards me with a knife," Alex resisted the urge to twist his facial expression into one of thought as he began to describe the scene. "…And there was another guy behind him as back up.

"And I…" he glanced around, trying to think. "I hit the guy with the knife. I-I punched him, and I knocked him into the other guy, and then Jonathan got away from the one holding him." Cynthia was nodding her head now, analyzing everything that he was saying. He knew he was walking on eggshells. "And so we ran off, back to his apartment. Well, I mean, I only stayed long enough to call a cab and get a ride home."

Cynthia nodded, in a considering manner. "Leonard and Church Street?"

"Yeah…" Alex felt his stomach twist.

"Isn't that where a man was murdered last Thursday?"

Alex tried to not let his eyes dart rapidly as he thought up an excuse. "Really?" he said. "The same night we were there?" Cynthia nodded her head, showing her suspicion right on her sleeve. "I don't watch the news…" he added lamely.

"Really? Okay, Alex." She gave him an odd look. "It _is_ Alex, right?"

"Yes." He replied hesitantly. "Why?"

"Oh, you just remind me of _another_ Alex, that's all." She glared up at him. "So, what's going to happen to Jonathan, Alex? What's going to become of my favorite bartender?"

"I don't know. He gets a new job…? Look, Cynthia, I didn't do anything to Jonathan – that's a fact. No matter what you think I did or where I was or who I am, or anything like that, you _have_ to believe that I'm not the reason that Jonathan left." It was at that point that Alex knew he had made a mistake in his story: _He_ wasn't the reason Jon was scared out of his mind? Now he didn't even believe himself.

"Why would I have any suspicions about who _you_ are, Alex? I mean, you've always gone by that name, so that part of your story's straight." She looked away briefly, and he almost caught something like a smile on her face for a moment, but it quickly twisted back down into a scowl as she stared back towards the taller man.

"…I don't know." His legs were itching to get away now. He would have been better off just sitting on the couch all day – even for the rest of his life – anything was better compared to this.

"Mmm-hmm." She turned as the door opened again. It was Tricia – Trixie – Tiffany? … Something with a T he thought. She was the only other bartender he had seen. She had a nose ring and black hair, dyed to look impossibly dark; it was shiny from the handfuls of gel she put into it. Despite the punk accessories, she was chipper, lightly reminding Cynthia that there was a forty year old's birthday party going on, and she was pretty sure there were a couple of alcoholics inside, so she needed to help get the margaritas ready.

"Oh, hey, Alex." She said. He gave a small wave; more of a flick of his palm, than anything friendly. Vaguely, he wondered how she remembered his name, if he couldn't even recall hers.

Cynthia growled. "I was in the _middle_ of something." She nodded towards Alex.

"You can ask him out later!" she giggled at her own joke. "I need the key to the storage room, too; it's hard when we're missing a set of hands." Alex felt another wave of guilt come over him, again. That wriggling feeling in his stomach came back ten-fold.

Cynthia turned and marched towards the door. "Put this," she slapped the envelope into the girl's hands, "Into the mailbox and meet me inside." She stared hard at Alex. "And don't even _think_ about leaving. I'm not finished with you yet, Alex."

The door slammed shut.

"Wow," the other woman said in reverence. "She's mad. I mean she's usually got a stick up her butt anyhow, but man," she turned to Alex. "What did you _say_ to her?"

"She thinks that I… um, scared Jonathan away." He eyed the envelope in the girl's hands. "I came here to apologize. I mean, we got attacked… by some thugs on the way to his house, but after we took care of them he kind of ran off. I wasn't sure if he was worried or something, so I wanted to come over and see if I did something wrong, and if I could-"

The bartender had stars in her eyes. "That's so sweet of you! Why didn't you come sooner! He might have been able to stay here!"

Alex purposefully looked away, trying to imitate a bashful expression. And the more he thought about what he was going to say, the easier it was to look embarrassed. "I was nervous," he said, trailing off, not really believing what he was spitting out. Almost cringing if he thought about it too hard. But he _needed_ that envelope, and this woman seemed pretty enraptured in what he was saying already.

"Oh," she let out a long breath and gave a whimsical smile, one that almost made Alex flinch, just thinking about what was going through her head. "Well, I mean, I doubt that he's coming back now," she replied.

"Yeah." He eyed the envelope again, until she gave it a look as well. She read the address.

"Ooh, I really know I'm not supposed to…" she looked behind her, as if Cynthia was going to appear at any moment. She gave a little bounce of indecisiveness, before throwing the paper into Alex's chest. "I hope I don't get fired." She whimpered. "I'm such a romantic."

"Thanks," Alex said at length. "Really. I'm going over to…" he looked at the address. "Morning Side Heights," He squinted. Harlem? Jonathan moved fast. "Well, um… thank-you, again."

"No problem." She leaned back into the bar door. "Now hurry up, before Cynthia gets back," she ducked inside, and Alex made a break for the highest building he could find, ducking in and out of the crowds that paid him no mind.

**xxxx**

Desmond threw open the curtains and watched the dust swirl in the weak sunlight. He had been trying to unpack. Not that there had been much _to_ unpack, anyway. And every time he put a pair of socks in a drawer, or shampoo in the shower, he had to wonder if he would have enough time to take it with him when it was time to leave.

And it _was_ a when. Not an if. In fact, if he was smart, he'd be halfway to Canada by now. But ever since Americans began rushing over the borders, he wouldn't be able to get out of the country without half a dozen official documents. And he didn't even have a birth certificate. Much less a passport. He found a folding chair and sat heavily in it, feeling his feet ache in the worn out sneakers; he'd need to replace them, soon. Plus, he needed a new ID – what names hadn't he used yet? Maybe Geoff. He kind of looked like a Geoff, he figured, scratching at the stubble that started to form on his chin and jaw. He was barely twenty-five, of course, so it would probably take a week for an actual beard to start forming. He could manage the homeless-man facial hair until he hit a store later in the week. He needed a new job, new shoes, new name –

He just needed a new life. Maybe one where he hadn't been born on some strict commune where the days were composed of menial labor and stories from the Middle Ages; a life where he could just have one job all through his life, not constantly looking over his shoulder, and have some friends that he could meet up with every week and go to a game with, or something incredibly clichéd like that.

I mean, God, what he wouldn't give for a shift at Mkinley's talking to Alex and joking with Tabitha or Cynthia about work, knowing that he'd come home with five hundred in cash by the end of the week.

_Alex,_ that name made his skin crawl now. That man; he should have known he was trouble the second he came in with a scowl and a hood over his face. He had never met a guy like him before – though, admittedly, he tried to avoid meeting anyone, really. After a quiet conversation, the man had given up his appearance of some lonely guy quietly pounding drinks and had instead become engrossed in his own rant as a bartender. And then what had they talked about? Hell, what _hadn't_ they talked about? Desmond couldn't recall having to make up so many details about himself for one person ever before, not even on one occasion where a policeman had pulled him into an office, thinking his outfit and looks similar to some store burglar.

And then he saw the man murder someone right before his eyes. Jesus, it was like the guy wasn't even _human_, the way he moved so fast. There had been so much blood, and the guy looked like he was about to rip everything apart – including Desmond.

Until he reached out his hand. It was like the man was schizophrenic or something, and Desmond almost wanted to grab his hand, because he just looked so small, so _disgusted_ with what he had done. It was like it wasn't even Alex's fault; like he was just acting on instinct.

Then again, they were both going to get murdered in that alley, if one of them didn't do something drastic. And it wasn't as if he had never been introduced to the drama of life before. Life on the Farm had introduced that at an early age; earlier than he could even remember, he noted coldly, touching the scar on his lip – the one that mirrored his 'Father', and great uncle, and all the other men and women in the bloodline before him. He saw their faces only because there were some photos, kept in secret drawers in his parent's bedroom. And he swore, he always swore that he could remember the moment he was given his scar; the ugly, telling marking that marred his skin in the worst place.

But that was only one of those things he tried not to think about. What had happened when he was ten? When a stranger had wandered onto their compound and was swiftly taken away by the adults to a far off cabin for hours – and, upon returning, there was no visitor in sight? Death was all around him, he knew, so he just couldn't find himself willing to hate Alex.

Part of him even half hoped he would show up at his door, actually. If only so he could have someone to talk to.

As soon as he thought that, millions of warning bells flared up in his mind – another sign of what his life was like before he fled for the Real World. Friends? Allies? Those were only enemies in disguise. That was one of the things that had always looped in his head. Every time a real, personal detail slipped, every time he let his guard down around Alex, those thoughts went into action and he found it hard to go to sleep at night, fearing that he was being watched.

Desmond sank down further in his seat, feeling the chill in the heatless apartment, seeping through minute cracks and thin walls. _Home Sweet Home_, he thought sarcastically, still wishing he had someone, anyone, to talk with.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Originally, this was only going to be the confrontation scene with Alex and Cynthia. But then it'd only be like, 1800 words, and now its almost 3,000! Thanks to _Laluzi_ who suggested this.**


	6. Part VI: Kiss and Make Up

The apartment complex was only ten stories tall: Windows full of air conditioning units, walls full of graffiti; the building had to have been made in the late 1800s. Alex watched the crowds of people walk by for twenty minutes or so, waiting for a lull in the foot traffic. For a blessed second, the street was just about empty, and he stood from the stairwell he had been lounging on and walked up to the steel door, clearly locked.

He felt his skin prickle slightly as his hand turned into hooks. Alex jammed the tip of one of the sharpened fingers into the doorknob and felt the tumblers inside break away; the door eased open without him even turning the knob.

"That's not noticeable," he muttered, struggling to close the door again.

The next door was glass with a push bar. He saw someone inside; a haggard looking woman, with a bag of groceries.

He knocked.

"What?" she snarled, turning towards the door. Alex gave a small flex of his fingers in greeting. "Oh." She walked up, letting him in. "Forget yo' key or somethin'?" Her accent was thick.

"Yeah," he eyed the staircase. "Something like that."

**xxxx**

Jonathan relocated to the sixth floor of an apartment building on La Salle Street and Amsterdam Avenue – right in the middle of Greater Harlem. Most of the neighbors would probably be in one of the surrounding colleges; the younger man would be able to fit in with extreme ease.

He was in room 608, behind a thin wooden door with four different locks.

Alex's knock resounded across the bare hallway.

He could've sworn he heard a shuffling inside. "Jonathan?" he called, quietly. "Jonathan Fetcher – are you in there?"

He heard a slam, as if something had fallen – maybe the other man was surprised he had shown up; _and that would be a perfectly justified reaction,_ his mind helpfully supplied; _He probably thinks he has a stalker now, too_. Alex pressed the side of his face closer to the door, his cheek grazing the wood. He could hear heavy, hesitant steps coming up to the doorway. There was a pause.

"Who is this?" Jonathan's voice sounded so close to him, now; he was probably doing the same thing on his side of the wall, Alex figured. The silence came back and Alex knew he had to say _something_ – but what wouldn't guarantee a complete panic attack from the other man? He could already tell, how experimental - how… distinctly _different_ Jon's voice was when he had asked who was on the other side of the door that he was scared.

And it was entirely his fault.

"It's Alex."

"Oh Jesus fucking –" The voice immediately turned down a few decibels again: "What are you doing here?"

"I came to apologize,"

"_Apologize_?" Jonathan sounded honestly confused, but then he pressed on: "You threw me under the _goddamn_ _bus_ – what's _sorry_ going to do?" He bit back.

"I thought that we could talk about it. It was an accident! I got angry, and I just," he hesitated. "…Got carried away."

"So that's how you deal with a problem?"

"They were going to kill you!" Alex shouted back. He felt his hands turn to fists against the door, and hesitantly looked around, wondering if anyone could hear their exchange. He continued in a more subdued tone after a moment, pressing his face back up against the door: "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to hurt you – I was never going to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, it's too late for that, now." He heard a small thump, as if Jonathan had hit his head against the doorframe. And now he didn't sound angry, or scared. In that moment, Jonathan just sounded _tired_, as if their argument had been longer than two minutes – as if he was struggling with himself, as well as the man outside his door. "Alex, just go _home_. I don't want to see you again, alright?" Alex strained his ears as he heard the other man slowly back away from the door, back deeper inside his new home, his new life – one that hopefully wouldn't include someone like Alex Mercer, fucking it up.

"I'm sorry…" He muttered into the wood, even though there was no way Jonathan could hear him; even though there was no way he would forgive him, either. His cheek stung briefly as he pushed himself away from the door that he had been pressed against.

He slowly made his way down the stairs.

**xxxx**

"_People are finicky; they change their minds all the time."_ He thought aloud. He spotted Jonathan's window; the fourth one to the right. He slumped his shoulders, and wondered what his sister would tell him if he repeated their previous… _conversation_ to her: She'd probably try and shove him out of her flat to go try again, because that was the sort of thing his sister _did_. Actually, no, they were both stubborn as hell, but his more obstinate traits tended to gravitate towards a _physical_ challenge; and he'd been without a decent one of _those_ for a while. In comparison, it felt like _he_ was the one with no backbone. Staring again at the dark hole in the wall, he noticed that Jonathan's window was the only one that didn't have a curtain draped completely over it – and he could even just barely make out a dirty screen, behind the glass there, and then he had to ask himself why someone, _anyone_, would do that _now_, in the early March weather? Because it wasn't really like there was much to see around this time of year, and most of the buildings around this part of Manhattan weren't even insulated, so it was really just a waste of heat. Alex guessed that maybe Jonathan didn't even _have_ heating – or maybe he just didn't care.

Actually, the more he stared, the more the window just seemed like a second entrance. An invitation, almost. He took a step forward, his mental train of thought already a bit unfocused, though he heard his sister's advice ringing around somewhere in there, and before he even had time to regret it, he felt his legs kicking off from the pavement and landing right at Jonathan's window.

He grappled for a hold: with no balcony or AC unit, and very little ledge to get purchase on, Alex let his left hand quickly form into a double edged blade, which he sunk into the brick and mortar easily. So he was left dangling there, trying to see how he could open the window from the outside. It was locked he found out, after a moment. He tried not to think about the people watching him from below, or Jonathan freaking out inside. And then he realized that the bartender was probably scrambling to get out of the apartment as his failure of stealth succeeded in scaring the shit out of the other man, and was still continuing on outside, as a matter of fact. So he eventually smashed his right shoulder against the wood and thin glass; once, at a bad angle that left his arm feeling twisted from its spot implanted in the wall, and then on the second time he managed to crash through, into the other man's apartment, his blade quickly unlatching itself and morphing back into a hand as he brought it down against the debris littered ground. What was left of the glass then exploded against his back as he made contact with the apartment's floor, and he already knew he'd be picking out the shards that had decided to come along for the ride out of his clothes for _hours_.

"I'll pay for that," he said quickly to Jonathan, who was struggling with the door's numerous bolts and chains and locks. "Calm down, Jon-"

"_Calm down?_" The younger man shrieked from across the small space. "_Don't tell me to fucking calm down! You just broke into my apartment! From a goddamned sixth story window!_" He had abandoned the escape route to begin a shouting match that he would very easily win. "_What_ the hell – no, _who_ the hell are you?"

"Sit _down_ and I'll tell you," Alex responded, his voice about as sharp as the pieces of glass currently imbedded in him. Jonathan looked between his new company, and the lone folding chair he had in the middle of the mostly empty room for a considerable amount of time, possibly waiting to see what the other man was going to do: Alex waited right along with him, and tried not to twitch impatiently as Jonathan silently contemplated his options: He was curious now, at least, and Alex just continued watching him think through the mental ultimatum he had presented. Of course, there was always the chance that Jonathan _would_ choose the much easier 'Fuck it' method, and then Alex decided he would have to give up. Because chasing the other man down was probably crossing the line, and yes, he realized, he _did_ have an ethical code that warranted breaking into someone's home, but not following them down the street. At least he _stuck_ to those ethics; that had to count for something.

After a few silent minutes, Jonathan's grip on the door handle unclenched with a small, sticky sound and he had made a few token steps forward. "What _are_ you going to do to me?" he asked quietly.

Alex felt his eyebrows furrow. "Nothing! I've told you that. I'm not going to hurt you; I'll leave right after we're done, and I won't talk to you ever again. I just…" he paused, wondering why he was even bothering with this. Now _that_ was a good question. "…I don't want you to think I'm a monster. Really, I'm not. You just need to know the whole story."

Jonathan stood, crossing his arms, keeping his guard up, high, and a mile thick. He plainly ignored the nearby chair and instead watched every flick of movement Alex made with a hard stare. "Well? Get started." His brown eyes were dark and focused, and most importantly suspicious. Alex suddenly felt that the story he was about to tell was going to be a lot more difficult. But he had this chance. This one, tiny little chance to let someone know that the Blacklight Virus, the Gentek Scientist, and the man standing before Jonathan now were all different identities; different _people_. And even though afterwards he would leave and spend the rest of his life pretending that he had no need for human interaction, at least _one_ person would know some semblance of truth.

"My name," he began, and already he could feel the weight of his words. "Is Alex Mercer, and thirty-one months ago I was America's number one bioweapon and terrorist. For a whole month you couldn't hear anything except me – me and the Outbreak here on the Island."

"I know about that," Jonathan said, looking at Alex anxiously. "I… I was in England at the time. Everyone was waiting to see what Zeus was going to do next; what the Infected were doing, who was going to get killed - or turned." He hesitated for a moment. "Alex, _you're_ Zeus?" He murmured, thinking desperately as he tried to see the two images mold together into one: Zeus was the killing machine everyone saw and feared – the one who faded like a legend after the Outbreak had dwindled down into nothing. And the other man – Alex Mercer, the one standing before him, was… was just some quiet guy who talked to him at the bar. And that was it. That was who Alex Mercer was to him. Just a quiet, simple guy with a dry sense of humor and a penchant for wearing a hood; the guy who murdered in defense and utterly despised himself for it; just another person who got caught in way over his head – not too dissimilar from himself. He found his voice again. "Alex, you're not Zeus… you _can't_ be Zeus."

At the hazy statement, Alex had to interrupt: "Why do you say that?"

"Because I _saw_ you, that day in the alley, reaching your hand out and looking so fucking ashamed of yourself I had to _make_ myself run."

"I still killed," he pointed out.

"Zeus killed. And you've killed… but you at least know enough to regret it," Jonathan stated, taking a few more steps towards Alex. "I know it's because I wasn't here," he said, nodding to the window; to the city outside. "I barely even watched the news anyway; maybe if I did, I'd feel different. Maybe if I was smarter, I'd be long gone already…" he turned and let his eyes wander around his apartment: At the half unpacked boxes and the broken mess of a window littering the ground. He couldn't feel the chill seeping in yet. Or maybe he had just gone numb, he couldn't tell. "…But I guess I _wasn't_ here for the Outbreak, and I _guess_ I must be a dumbass for even _standing_ here, talking to you – but when you say that you don't want to hurt me? I kind of want to believe that." Jonathan looked down for a few seconds before he chanced a few more steps, until now they were both just a few feet away from each other, standing in front of the broken window. "And I also want to believe what you're telling me. So…" he shifted again, making a gesture for Alex to keep talking. "Go ahead,"

"It's kind of a long story," he prefaced; Jonathan just shrugged.

"You wanted to tell it. Do you want to start with a question?" the other man did a very good job of getting a detached look on his face, which might have been some sort of defensive mechanism. "Well, if your… um, entrance tells me anything, it's that you aren't human. So why don't we start there."

"I was one of the first people infected with the Blacklight Virus in 2009," Alex said. "_The_ first, actually." Jonathan looked at him up and down as he said this, taking in the rigid posture and athletic build that was pretty much covered up by Alex's standard, rather layered outfit. He had gotten into the habit of actually using human clothes, but his fashion sense never deviated from the default template of a hooded street punk in good shoes.

"You _look_ pretty human," Jonathan interjected. "For an Infected, I mean."

"I'm not what the military labels as a Common Infected."

"Then what are you?"

Alex felt the side of his mouth curl back into something that couldn't really be called a smirk. "A Prototype," he answered. "Of the Blacklight Virus."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, still maintaining a half lidded stare as he inspected some detail on the other man's arm. "You make it sound like someone _made_ you," and at that Alex did let a bitter twitch of his lips show.

"Yeah, you know, you could probably say that. Have you ever heard of Gentek?" Jonathan nodded.

"It worked with genetics and bio… stuff. It's been in the news a bit. Especially back then."

"They were engineering the Blacklight Virus: Strain DX – 1118 C."

"I thought it was called Redlight. The infected, I mean. What about them?"

"That one... wasn't directly their fault." It was mine, he inwardly thought, feeling his insides go sour as he thought back to Elizabeth Greene. "That was like a starting point for them; that Virus made people mindless slaves. Gentek wanted something different - something that wouldn't make a mess of the hosts. Blacklight was supposed to replicate inside someone down to the genetic level, but it tended to just... kill everything it could touch."

"Except for you. You got lucky."

"Would you call it lucky?" Alex said, squinting a bit. "But I _was_ an exception. A very rare exception at that. Even now I'm not so sure why I didn't die or become like… the others. Something in my DNA, I suppose. That, or maybe I was just about dead when the Blacklight Virus found its way inside me."

Jonathan gave a start and uncrossed his arms in surprise. "You were dead?"

"A few rounds of bullets in the back tend to do that to a person. When I woke up, I was in a morgue, interrupting my own autopsy.

"At that point, I knew I was Alex Mercer, and that was it. That was the only thing I had – and I decided to figure out what was happening to me; to Manhattan."

"…Did you get what you wanted?" Jonathan asked, still in a removed sort of tone, though admittedly still shaken from the news that Alex Mercer had _died_.

"Yes. I did. I wish I hadn't, though. It turned out that I _wasn't_ Alex Mercer. I wasn't anyone. He died from bullet wounds and bled to death at Penn Station."

Jonathan gave him a look. "Then _what_ are you?"

"I _am_ the Blacklight Virus. Every cell I have is from a Gentek engineered strain of the most dangerous bio-weapon Man has ever created. From the moment the human Alex Mercer was infected, the Blacklight Virus reproduced inside his still living cells. And when he died? It kept on living in the shell. In me. Because it _is_ me. I choose to look human," He had that same, half felt prickling sensation again as his right arm morphed once more into a blade.

Jonathan watched, and if he was afraid, then he was either too shocked or too inquisitive to move from his spot on the floor. But he stared; brown eyes wide and unblinking as Alex's body practically _rippled_ with sparks of red and black. They were vine like appendages, he noticed, and they seemed to sprout from somewhere on Alex's body, but the transformation happened so quickly that he couldn't really manage to pick out any of the details – he could only watch.

It was like some sick magic trick, he could feel himself thinking. Take one perfectly normal looking human arm, and then with a puff of black smoke, there was a long, thick sword like projection coming out from where Alex's elbow should have been. It was at least as long as his leg, and it glinted in the fast fading light of the afternoon. "But you're a lot more than that," Jonathan breathed out, stepping a bit closer and holding his own hand out, towards the blade.

"Less and more," Alex offered, shifting a bit. He almost felt himself grin in a sick show of pride. "Wanna touch it?" he asked, gesturing to his arm. Jonathan's eyes flicked up to his face before he hesitantly knocked on the broad side of the blade. It felt like he was knocking on a hot diamond, as weird as the comparison was. The blade was warm – about as warm as Alex's body usually was, which, he guessed, probably was to be expected. The weapon was smooth, tapering off at a subtle angle to create the edge of the blade. And it felt more durable than steel, and it wasn't rough like stone or cement, so his mind quickly drifted towards diamond, even though the impressive knife didn't look anything like a gemstone. He tapped the hard black shell of the hilt, trying to see exactly _where_ the blade started and the jacket ended, but all of it more or less blended into one another flawlessly, and as metallic as it looked, Jonathan realized he found himself regarding the blade as an almost natural appearance for Alex Mercer.

He lifted his hand slightly and Alex began to change back. Jonathan could feel the very real strands of… _mass_ that swirled around the other's body. They were warm too, and felt as solid as steel cables, even as he watched them mould into one another and quickly disappear and lash out and move at an incredibly fast pace. Alex's normal arm soon came into view, and Jonathan slowly set the proper distance between them, not paying attention to the hot atmosphere he had just spent the last five minutes enraptured in.

"I guess you really _aren't_ human," Jonathan felt himself saying. He saw Alex nod.

"As far as I'm concerned, I am Alex Mercer," he calmly insisted. "I'm just not the Alex Mercer everyone knew before the Outbreak. While I use _that man's_ name, I am _nothing_ like him." He stressed the last sentence, in desperation and in anger, and he felt his teeth grind so severely he could almost feel the hard crunch of his molars.

"The human Mercer sounds like one hell of a guy," Jonathan supplied, gauging Alex's reaction as he revealed a bit of his back story.

"He was." Alex agreed, and as he tried to inform Jonathan just how _much_ of a monster the human Mercer was, he felt his tongue knot itself up; his mouth going dry. He couldn't say it. Something inside him just wouldn't let the other man know just how bad his previous self had been. Because he was, in a way, a part of the Blacklight Virus now known as Alex Mercer. There was the Scientist; the God, and the Virus. And they all were separate entities – each with their own mannerisms and emotions and reasons and _lives_, and the both previous to Alex were, as far as he was concerned, _dead_. They would've even been better off non-existent, but then _he_ wouldn't be there, either. So they were all tied together with a jagged red string; all pushing and pulling against one another. He halted that line of thinking, because it always tended to turn into a game of repetition and confusion as to where each incarnation of Alex started and ended, and he didn't really want to dwell on that, now; it made him tired. Mentally tired – again, not a feeling he particularly liked. Plus, as he chanced a look back at Jonathan, who had been waiting uncomplainingly for the other man to continue talking, he was getting that same worn look on his face as his neutral demeanor began failing. He was getting tired, too, he argued within himself – he might not have been able to understand, let alone accept what the human Alex Mercer and the entity known as Zeus had done. It was a miracle he was able to accept the Blacklight Virus, even; considering the things he himself had done, as well, which he would argue weren't as abominable. "I guess that's the basic idea," Alex finished, even though he didn't really _sound_ finished.

Jonathan also seemed a bit underwhelmed from the conclusion, but he just nodded, slowly, thinking of something to say. A strong gust of wind blew through the apartment, blowing the shards of glass around and causing an odd whistling as the breeze sailed through some small crack at the very corner of the pane. Finally, Jonathan remembered how to shiver, how to feel again, and he immediately felt his skin pucker and grow frigid under the white jacket he wore. Alex gave a glance behind him.

"Oh. Right. I should probably fix that for you. You deserve that, at least." He took a step towards the window and placed a leg up on the ledge.

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I figured I could get a tarp for you to put up, and then I could-"

"-_Or_ we could just go to a store that sells stuff to fix this. Together. I _can_ go outside, you know." Alex straightened up again, turning around. "_What?"_ Came the innocent reply.

"I just figured that you'd want me out of here as soon as possible," he muttered. "That was the deal; you let me talk, and I'd get out of your life."

"That was the _offer_ – I never agreed to that." Jonathan stood right up against Alex, and even managed a smile. He put a hand on the other man's shoulder in what was supposed to be consoling, but instead took a rather painful turn as he felt small bits of glass poke him in the hand. He pulled away, staring at his palm and fingers.

"You okay?" Alex found himself asking, gingerly peering over for his own inspection. He felt his hand go up unconsciously, but stopped himself just short of actually touching Jonathan's injured hand. Their fingers brushed for a brief second as Jonathan straightened up and let his hand rest to the side.

"Fine. No blood. I was just making sure nothing got stuck." He closed the hand a few times, trying to see if there was anything there. "Come on, take off that jacket and get me to a _Lowe's_ or something." He began to take a few steps backwards, not taking his eyes off the other man. "There are a few things I have to tell you, too." And that was enough of a temptation for Alex, who found himself walking out the door behind the other man.

**xxxx**

**A/N: There was a second scene to this, but it would have made the chapter a bit too long. I try to keep the chapters four to five thousand words, but as the story goes on the parts get longer.****  
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	7. Part VII: And the Truth Comes Out

Desmond could hear the small, dull thuds Alex's feet made on the carpeted hallways behind him; he could feel the man's blue eyes intently watching his back, and there was still a very small part of him that was desperately pleading to just fake left and run for the nearest transit as soon as they hit the street.

His chest was tight, and he kept on chewing on the inside of his cheek and tapping his fingers against his palms. It felt like he was enduring the worst wait of his life. With each step he found himself cursing New York, cursing his shitty luck, and cursing the man ignorantly following behind him.

But he just couldn't put his heart into the last bit.

It would have been easier if he wasn't on the _fence_ about so many things: Alex Mercer didn't want to hurt him? _That_, he believed – _wanted to believe_ – but he would remember that double edged sword that had replaced what _should_ have been the man's arm, and his hand started shaking as its unquestionable lethality passed through his mind.

And he was going to tell him… _everything_? Could he afford it? After constant harried moves and living off the grid and watching his step, he was just going to _wing_ it?

Half of his mind was screaming, telling him how stupid he was, and the other half was urging him on, keeping him moving forward, and trying not to jump when Alex leaned in to the side of his head and quietly muttered, "The Commercial Section is down that way," nodding to the right. "You need to cross here." He finished, before stepping back to a polite distance, molding into the small group of pedestrians that were waiting for the light to change. Desmond found his arms had been unconsciously brought upwards in a half attempted defensive position, and he slowly lowered them, his mood souring a bit.

Idly, he turned his head to the side. "How long did you just let me wander around out here?"

Alex shrugged. "About four blocks. You looked… busy." Desmond blinked; _that long?_

"You're not in a rush, huh?"

"You said you had to tell me something – I was just trying to wait." They started moving along with the other walkers.

"Well, you're doing a _great_ job," he said, trying to make a joke but instead finding that the line had fallen flat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt pressured to say something else – something that _didn't_ sound like a verbal punch in the face, but he couldn't think of anything.

They got on to the next block and he veered left, to a display window, and watched as Alex slowly came out of the crowd to join him. "Sorry," Desmond muttered, rubbing his mouth.

"For what?"

"Being a dick, I guess."

"You swear a lot more out of work." Alex said in dull observation. "You know that?"

"Bad habit." Desmond quirked his mouth and looked around at the pastel colors making up the city streets. God, winter _sucked_. "Do you know _why_ I ran off, back in the alley?" Alex gave him a look.

"I was assuming it had something to do with me murdering a man in cold blood."

"That was… an encouragement, I'll admit. The guy you – um, _killed_," he had to choke out the word. "Do you remember what he looked like? What he wore?" Desmond was leaning against the glass, looking to see any other loitering parties, but the walkers around them flowed down the road as if it were a stream; none of them were particularly aware or concerned with the people they were walking aside and bumping against. And there was a safety in that; an anonymous feeling that felt almost as good as if their conversation was being carried out in say, a hole in the wall diner or an abandoned parking lot straight out of the _crime noir_ genre.

"You wouldn't be talking about the red cross on his shirt, would you?" Alex asked, watching the other man's reaction closely.

Desmond's eyes increased by just a fraction, and only for a moment – but he knew Alex had seen it, and that they both had an idea of what the other was thinking.

"Sounds like you know something," Desmond observed, shifting on his feet.

Alex stared expectantly at the other man. "Same with you,"

"It's not much."

"If it made you start running, it should be."

Desmond pointedly gave a long look at the dark buildings around him, and ignored the frigid feeling that had so easily seeped into his fingers and toes. His mind was mulling through dozens of questions he could feel on the horizon – things that Alex would want to know.

"Is there some place we can go?" he asked. "Like, where no one can _hear_ us?" he raised his voice a bit, letting his eyes follow a small group of women who were staring at him as they wandered past. When he looked back, Alex was scanning the rooftops.

"Sure, I've got a place." He offered. "But I guess that you'd like to make an inconspicuous entrance, right?"

"…Why?" Desmond slid his gaze from the man standing beside him to the sky, crowded with uneven monsters of steel and glass. "Can you _fly_ too?"

"Maybe," Alex said, smiling under his hood. Desmond only noticed the expression when the other man gestured towards a bus station. "Consider yourself lucky – I _hate_ public transportation."

**xxxx**

Dana Mercer was currently in an intricate balancing act between getting dressed, talking on the phone and blankly staring at the weather reports before cursing Manhattan for its shitty, _shitty_ climate. "It's like its getting worse every year," she muttered into the phone.

"And you _say_ that every year, so either there's some super villain in Antarctica that's melting the ice caps without anyone noticing… or you're just a grumpy, exaggerating-"

"-I'm going with the first idea. At least then I could get a story out of it."

Theresa – Dana's friend on the other line – scoffed a bit: "I told you to take Mike's offer and go down to Tampa with him for two weeks, but _no_; you had to _work_. His grandparents are down there and they're _loaded_; if you played your cards right you wouldn't even _need_ to work after that trip."

"Play my cards right? You mean pretend that Mike and I were getting married? That's a romantic comedy level of fucked up, Theresa. What is this, _The Proposal_?"

"…I liked that movie, actually."

"Which is fitting, since that's your genre – but don't let Harlequin bleed over into my life, okay? As hard as it is to believe, I do have a fucking career plan."

"Yeah, yeah, so you say…" Theresa's voice sounded distant for a moment, and Dana took the break in conversation as a chance to stare longingly back at her computer – now off. She had spent about nine hours going through Abstergo's archives, and she knew that there was something there. They had their money stuffed into thousands of companies across the world, and their stocks were climbing every day; it was like there was a fire within the structure itself, coming out as embers in the old records she found – in the memos and history and e-mails she could get into. She stared down at the growing number of paper files on her desk – they had even invested in _Gentek_, back in 1990; calling for projects and research until pulling out completely in 2009. _I wonder why?_ was the empty question she asked after pulling out the old papers she had saved from The Outbreak; like _that_ wasn't putting two and two together.

Dana would have been content to simply stay at her desk until she had all the answers, but she had met up with a couple of distractions. Some people called them friends. "Oh. _Shit_." Theresa finally said, finding her voice again.

"What?"

"Oh my God, Jill's birthday is in like, a _week_ and I haven't gotten her anything. Shit, I am such a bad friend." Dana grabbed a dark windbreaker hanging up in the hall closet, attempting to slip it on and console her friend at the same time.

"Calm down; I'll just head over to your place now and we can go up to Pier 17 and get her a crock pot; you know, something all domesticated and shit for her new apartment with Alan."

"God, I can't believe she's getting married in November."

Dana leaned into the hall mirror and touched a few strands of hair that were sticking out of place. "_I_ can't believe she's twenty-five, already."

There was a long pause, and for a moment Dana had thought that Theresa had accidentally hung up on her. She walked back to the couch and turned off the TV, stretching her legs, slow to close her phone until she heard a voice drifting out of the receiver. "…Well, _you're_ going to be twenty-five in a few weeks, too, you know."

Dana held her breath as she mentioned that, and a second later a chilling blast of realization hit her in the chest. It felt like remembering how terribly short the summer was to ending as a kid, or maybe knowing exactly how hectic the rest of the week was going to be for you. Something that reminded you of how much time you really had left. "I don't feel twenty-five," Dana whispered, pressing the phone harder against her cheek. "Hell, I don't even feel twenty-four."

"I know, I know. Sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that."

"No, it's okay." Although it really didn't _feel_ okay, and even in the warm apartment she felt frigid on the inside, like there was something inside her, making a little ticking noise whenever she paused to actually listen.

And she didn't really want to listen. Not now. _Now_, she really just wanted to log back on to the Abstergo site, but she was going over to Theresa's in a few minutes – probably as soon as she hung up, actually, just because she wasn't sure if she wanted to be totally alone in her thoughts right now – so she stared up at the still ceiling fan and waited for her friend to say something else, anything else – something silly and nonsensical that would distract her again. Unless of course she was waiting for _her_…

A moment later there was a knock on the door.

**xxxx**

The apartments were simple, new, and worlds better than the one Desmond had. "What floor is it?" he asked, stepping into the lobby and shifting his eyes towards the elevator.

"Twelfth. Come on," Alex paused for a moment before finding the stairs. "I haven't been in here for months."

"I thought you stayed here," Desmond was trying to focus on the handrail as he fingers slid up along it. _Twelve floors? Really?_

"I come here all the time. I just don't use _these_," he reached the landing of the third floor, stared at Desmond as he followed up behind him, and rushed up another flight.

"Or elevators, apparently."

Alex didn't respond right away, and Desmond thought that he just hadn't heard him. Then, he muttered, "I don't go on elevators." It was quiet enough that it took Desmond a moment to decipher what he had said.

"Watching your cholesterol?"

"_No_," the hallway grew uncomfortably glacial for a moment, and the rest of the way was spent in silence. _Did he just piss Alex off?_ Was the main thought running through Desmond's head, at least until they walked down the line of doors. Alex stopped without any warnings.

He knocked twice, and waited for a moment. There were the faint sounds of steps, and then the rattling of a lock falling away, and then the door opened. A woman about their age stood in the aperture. She was dressed in jeans and a coat, cell phone pressed to her ear. Her hair was brown, short, and she had the intensely blue eyes that were haunting and familiar to Desmond; ones that were almost white in their paleness.

Her gaze shot from him to Alex, then back again. "No, it's just Alex," she said into the receiver, stepping to the side to let the both of them through. After a second of just standing, Desmond realized that Alex was waiting for him, and so he hesitantly went inside, two pairs of eyes following him as he went.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting: An interrogation room? A secret fortress? But all he saw were a few dead monitors on a crowded desk, a beat up couch and a flat screen TV farther back, and some carpet. That was it. "Yeah, no, he brought a friend." The woman was saying, closing the door behind her – Alex now inside. Desmond turned and saw her bristle at something unheard. "_What_? No! No, _fuck_ no – I… well it's not _my_ business; hey, look, just because you write romance novels doesn't mean that you can't take a break _for_ reality, okay?" She caught both men looking at her. "Well, now they're staring at me. Nice job. Yeah, I'll catch you in a few. Pier 17, still, right? In front of the sushi place, sure. See you then," She slid the phone into her pocket. "Sorry, what's up?" Her gaze fell back on Desmond. He wanted to say that he had _seen_ her somewhere before, but he was drawing a blank. "Oh, Jonathan – you're Jonathan, right?" she pointed a finger to him, flicking her gaze quickly to the side to see if Alex would confirm or deny this statement.

Alex quirked his mouth to the side. "Yes," he said. "He needed to tell me something."

"_Here_?"

"A safe place; I figured this would work." Dana nodded, shaking her hair as she did so.

"You want me to go?" she asked politely, her face a touch more apprehensive than before, and still examining Desmond, who was trying to decide if he should stare back or pretend to be interested in the plain walls of the condo. Dana was already stretching her arm out for a set of keys on the cluttered desk.

"If you don't mind." And she was backing out of the room, throwing a bright, instantaneous smile at Desmond on the way.

"I'm Dana, by the way," she said, and her look was absent of emotion – like her command to look hospitable had come in too late, and she could only manage a cheap knock off of the real thing. The door closed, and he and Alex were once again alone.

"Who was that?" Desmond asked, feeling his hands bunching up again. "Roommate? Girlfriend?" He couldn't really imagine Alex having either.

Alex brought his nose up at that. "_Sister_." He muttered harshly, and it suddenly felt like Desmond was standing in front of a fire. Alex had gotten distant in the minutes from his apartment to the one they were standing in now. Was he just getting impatient – or was it something else? The silence stretched on, and with it that gnawing feeling that he should just fuck everything and _run_ – and he couldn't even do that, now, could he? He cast an anxious expression at Alex, who was standing off to the side, staring intently at the desk, instead of him. He hadn't made any motions to talk, and Desmond figured he was still waiting for him to say something.

Desmond guessed that if you could shape shift, climb up buildings and possibly even fly, then you weren't exactly used to waiting around for people.

His tongue felt like a dead, rotting thing in his mouth as he tried to force words from it: "I know what I'm going to tell you is insane," he prefaced.

Alex cut him off, turning to look as soon as Desmond could find the words to say. "Jonathan, look who you're _talking_ to."

Desmond eyed the couch, and felt the weariness settling into his heels, but he still didn't want to sit down; to put himself at a lower stance than the other man – as if that would be showing weakness, and while he wasn't looking for enemies, he didn't want to make himself vulnerable – especially not now, and _especially_ not with someone like Alex. Once again the other man was staring holes into him, as if he might get all the answers he wanted if he could just _glare_ hard enough.

_Well_, _this was it_, he thought, taking a breath.

"Actually, I should probably let you know now; my name isn't Jonathan." Alex hadn't moved an inch, but there was still some unmade sign; _tell me,_ he was thinking. _What should I call you? What _can_ I call you?_ "I change it - whenever I move, actually. My new one is Geoff Nelson, the license came in today," his hands were burning now, but he couldn't move them an inch, as if he would betray something – as if he would _lose_ if he did.

"And your _real_ name?"

"Desmond Miles." And something in his stomach was coiling up like a black hole, and he really had to force those syllables out – moving his mouth in a way he half forgot, trying to get them to _mean_ something, practically doubling over himself in the process. "You can call me Desmond Miles."

Wasn't there an old superstition about names? Alex was thinking; like a voodoo belief? – he could remember some sort of superstition like that, and he saw Desmond – _Desmond_, that was a good name, actually, as he said it over and over in his head – practically collapse at the name, as if he was in _pain_ at that one slip. "Are you okay, Desmond?" he asked, and yes, the man in front of him did look like a Desmond Miles, and he found himself inwardly smiling as he thought of that, even when he was externally grimacing in concern. He looked at the stormy brown eyes, dark hair, dark skin, dark _past_ all welling up from the man in front of him, enveloping him until he came out with the new identity: This was not Jonathan Fetcher, a docile bartender he met and befriended on chance; this man was something several shades blacker, more impenetrable than anyone he had ever met. This new man had just stepped out of Jonathan's skin, and he was left with questions that he wanted answered to – a feeling of an unquenched thirst for knowledge, not unlike the first days of his confused, harsh existence. He could feel his body shaking a little, as he reflected on that, as if Desmond was nothing more than a subject to be cut open.

But he was different now; he had words to use along with his strength, and he had the ability to wait as Desmond slowly began to talk again.

"You have to understand," Desmond was saying, heavily – as if it was taking effort. "No one knows that – no one knows who I am. Not since I left the Farm, eight – no, _nine_ years ago." He paused, as if he had to marvel at how much time had passed.

"The Farm?" Alex echoed.

"That's where I grew up." Desmond said, straightening a bit. He had gotten over the shock of actually revealing that one, important detail about himself – the one that could turn up profiles, names, addresses, lives – and the rest of his past flowed out so easily afterwards: "That's what they called it; it was a commune, you know? I lived out in the middle of nowhere – and I _do_ mean nowhere. There was only our community of thirty people, and a billion miles of fields. Everybody lived off the land – totally secluded from everything else."

"Why were you kept there?"

"It was a hideout, I guess. My parents, they said it was for our safety – like someone was coming to get us. They said we were born different; we were _marked_." He snorted at that, and gestured to the pale line on his lip. Alex raised his eyebrows. He had figured the scar was an accident, or an odd birth mark. But somewhere, out there, there was a whole congregation of people, all with similar looks and a similar scar as the man in front of him? "What _were_ you, then?"

Desmond glanced off to the side, as if recalling a past he would rather not focus on – a feeling Alex was all too familiar with. "We were called Assassins. It's… I mean, I've never _killed_ anybody, I thought it was a joke; my parents were just crazy hippies, or they were like a whole other brand of Amish people. They were all so caught up in the past: The Middle Ages, the Renaissance, they didn't even allow technology on the Farm. If it was more complicated than a light bulb, I didn't see it until I was sixteen."

"What happened then?" Alex prompted; feeling like someone was telling him a story; versus an actual recounting of a life.

"When I was sixteen I just ran for it. In the middle of the night. I was watching the stable, just me and this other kid; I knocked him out when he wasn't looking and stole a horse.

"I got to some town in Illinois and got a job there, in a store. Just for two weeks. I camped out in a field a whiles away, took roughing it to the damn extreme, you know?" Alex nodded his head. "When I got enough cash, I bummed rides all the way down to Austin – I picked up bartending there, real fast."

"Were you on the streets?"

Desmond looked down at his shoes for a moment –he still needed some new ones. "Yeah. It was hard, especially for the first year. But anything beat going back home."

"You hated it that much?"

He looked up again, squinting – as if the answer was obvious. "I spent the first sixteen years of my life, locked up like a goddamn prisoner, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was like I was paying for my parent's mistakes." He glared out Dana's window, his face still hard. "I was never happy there; I had nobody – hell, I have nobody now. But at least I have freedom. At least I can see places like _this_," he moved his arm out to the pane of glass on the other side of the room. "I never even saw a building higher than three stories until I left. No childhood, no thinking for myself… well, I don't know how much you can remember about… the other Alex growing up, but…"

"A little." Alex tried not to scowl at the mention of his other self. "Dana's filled me in a bit, too. We can… emphasize with that. Well, she can, at least. I can try, and I understand." He shifted a bit, the concept of some similarity between him and Desmond feeling foreign in his mind. He pressed on; "And what of the cross?" he asked, the inquiry hanging between them.

"Nothing concrete," Desmond was saying, and now he managed to stand up a little straighter, glad to be getting back to slightly less personal territory. "I've seen it before; it's an insignia for _something_, and I've looked the picture up once or twice, but it could be anything from a gang to a religious sect to some fanclub."

"Do you have any idea at all?"

Desmond worried his lip for a moment, biting against the side of the mouth that had the scar. "Have you heard of the Templars?" his voice dropped down low enough that it seemed less like an actual question for Alex to address, but he could hear everything in the room, even something as quiet as a heartbeat, if he was concentrating.

"My sister is an investigative journalist," he said, almost feeling a surge of pride at actually having some information to give. "They were bound to turn up sooner or later… so, you think they're the ones-"

"I don't know _what_ to think." He moved his arms up, half between a shrug and an outburst. "In fact, it doesn't really _matter_, because _I'm_ not getting involved. The first thing I think of when I see those crosses are Templars – because, I mean, they're behind everything, right? And whenever that image shows up, I know things are about to get bad."

"So you've seen that symbol before?"

Desmond put a hand to his mouth. "Sometimes it's a tattoo, or a pin, or a bumper sticker. Sometimes it's nothing at all, but my skin just… _crawls_ when I look at them… like its instinct; like I'm _supposed_ to be afraid of them. Those thugs were probably hired by some sort of headquarters or something, and I say Templars because I need a name for these people."

"You think they're looking for you?"

"Doubt it; I think we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if one of them made it back…"

"They didn't," Alex argued. He had put those memories to good use. Desmond nodded.

"I figured. Otherwise, I'd be gone."

"These people want to kidnap you, and you haven't even tried… looking into it?"

The look Alex got at the question seemed to be full of something bitter in nature. Desmond quirked his lips up again, but there was no smile there; he looked almost angry, and spiteful – Alex hadn't seen a look that potent in ages. "You're looking at the guy who ran away from all that. I'm not _Robert Langdon_ – I'm a fucking bartender trying not to get caught up in the same shit my parents got stuck in – the thing that made them relocate to the middle of _Nowhere, USA_ for the rest of their stupid lives."

Alex twisted his mouth as he bit down on the words: Dana was already linking Abstergo to another organization – they had some of those crosses too. And during the Outbreak, she had similar files of _somebody_ having their fingers deep inside Gentek. Now it almost seemed _too_ easy; that the same people who called for the Blacklight Project were the same ones holding major companies under their heel who were the same ones causing Desmond grief his entire life; that seemed impossible – that every problem, every tragedy, could have all been linked back to some shadowed monopoly that was tugging strings and hiding their presence so far back that no one could find them.

But now he wanted it to make sense.

If his sister found out what Desmond had told him, she would only try to get him interested in figuring out what was going on. "And you don't care?" he was saying, feeling his own curiosity rise, "The extent of these people? Or what they could have done to your parents?"

"I've managed to stay out of trouble so far," he was arguing, staring down at the idea like it was an invitation to walk through a fire – and maybe for Desmond, who had spent his entire life hiding, it really was. "And the Farm was my own personal Hell to me, Alex. My parents were… I can't even call them that – they brought me into this world, and they wouldn't have hesitated to take me out." He flicked his finger up to his mouth. "You're curious how I got this, right? I can tell you, it wasn't an accident."

Alex hid his grimace behind the razor thin line of his mouth.

They both stood, sizing each other up, mulling over the small details in their heads; dissecting, comparing, trying to figure out what to do next. Alex knew he hadn't said everything he could have – and he had the sneaking suspicion that Desmond was giving him the short version of his story. If the Farm were comprised of people who were in hiding, then what did that make them? Victims? Conspirators? Enemies of whoever were hunting them down? And Templars… just doing a Google search of that name left one's head spinning with ridiculous propaganda and conspiracies, until that name became less of a thing and more of an entity for suspicious stories and hypothetical tales. But that's what Desmond called them, the people who were always two steps behind. His head was buzzing and he demanded more answers – demanded to know everything, but it seemed that the man's openness had diminished back into nothing. So they stood. And stared. And tried to figure out what to do with one another.

"…What now?" Desmond asked, finally.

"You tell me." Alex said coolly, stuffing one hand into his pocket. "Do you still want me to go?"

Desmond was giving him a long, thoughtful look. "No, I…" he blinked a few times, trying to focus: "I actually _do_ want to see you again, Alex. You're the only person I know - maybe in the entire world – who knows where I'm coming from. We have a few things in common, I guess. That's one way of putting it, at least."

There was an odd feeling that surged through Alex's chest at that. Almost elation – almost arrogance, and he found himself giving Desmond a hesitant smile; and even that expression felt a little different, like it didn't fit right on his face. But Desmond was smiling back at him, anyway, before he suddenly asked, "What made you go to Mkinley's in the first place, anyway?"

"Dana." He nodded towards the door, as if his sister was just standing there. "She said I needed to…" he looked up, trying to remember the words. "…Socialize, I guess? Find someone I could talk to. Make me feel more…"

"Normal?"

Alex nodded, realizing he still had that strange smile twisted onto his face.

"Yeah, something like that."

**xxxx**

**A/N: Desmond's – we can call him Desmond now, thank God – working knowledge of Assassins and Templars is rudimentary, I imagine. My guess is that he just goes, "Screw that," to the whole thing after he leaves the Farm and doesn't really bother learning anything except for the paranoid crap he got growing up. Also – did you think he got that scar accidentally? **_**Really?**_** You remember he ran **_**away**_**, right? Also, don't know why, but there are quite a few pop culture references in here. That just kind of happened.  
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	8. Part VIII: Serious Bout of Self Loathing

Once she got back to Mkinley's tomorrow, Cynthia was going to _strangle_ Tabitha. She had gone back outside to find that Alex Mercer – because it _was_ Alex Mercer who had been coming in and harassing Jonathan for the past month – had disappeared.

She angrily ducked her head deeper into her jacket and moved through the slush. Her destination was coming fast into view: A Manhattan police station – complete with the large globe lights on the porch.

The tiles were linoleum and the walls were just barely thick enough to hold in some sparse heat. Her hair was still pulled tight against her scalp; her ears red from exposure. The front desk was empty and she sank further into her jacket, making fists in her pockets. She wasn't stupid; she knew that going to the police was about as useless as hunting down the Blacklight Virus _itself_, but still… she shook her head a bit, leaning on the light oak of the desk. It was tall and worn, and stuffed full of papers.

It wasn't Jonathan's fault; he was polite, but closed off – just his luck that he gets singled out by that mutated _freak_. Sure, sure, he was '_reformed'_ or whatever the press said after he killed James Heller. He was a good guy, now; he was just going to live an unassuming life in Manhattan doing whatever the hell it was that you did when you were a Genetically Engineered Piece of Evidence that God Doesn't Exist – at least when you _weren't_ eating people. And that's what he was probably planning to do. It made sense – to find and track down some reclusive, unimportant man that just moved into the city, someone that no one would miss if they had _mysteriously disappeared._

But as for Alex Mercer, his – _its_ – relationship with the U.S. government was tentative, and ready to snap. She knew that Alex had murdered the night he and Jonathan had walked home together, and maybe if she could convince _these_ people of that, Jonathan would be able to get a heads up on _who_ exactly his 'friend' was.

If someone ever showed up, of course. She groaned impatiently, leaning further into the desk, watching the few men and women around her. Some were filling out paper work, one woman was filing her nails, and there was a man next to the coat rack that had on an unwrinkled suit, and was doing the same lazy scan she was. Their eyes met; he smiled, and Cynthia turned back to the desk in time to see a door to the back offices opening.

Officer Larson had just stepped out of one of the doors. He had a manila envelope in his hand and lamented the fact that the flood of paperwork the station had received in the last month seemed about as infinite as the snowstorms were. He hated pencil pushing and sitting at a desk; and, evidently, so did the rest of the force, since there wasn't anyone waiting for some of the visitors that had accumulated in the waiting room.

One woman had laid herself half over the desk. She looked run-down, and as he approached her, there was a faint wave of alcohol coming off of her clothes. She gave a lurching moan as if she was in pain, and she pushed herself further into the wood.

"Miss…?" He asked expectantly, slipping behind the desk. The woman was probably drunk, or at least had _been_ drunk, but the last thing he needed was disorderly conduct inside the already disorganized offices.

Her head jerked up. "Oh." She paused, checking the officer, figuring out what to say; he was used to the hard stares and speech preparations that most people gave him – at least when he was still in uniform. "I'd like to give some information to a case. Is there a form for that?"

"What case?" He scratched the back of his neck.

"Um, I don't know the number or title or anything," she spoke earnestly. "But it happened on Thursday, February 23rd, on some street off of Leonard and Church," she paused, watching as the cop's eyes widened. "Do you know what I'm talking about?" Larson clenched his jaw. Yes, that was one of his more _memorable_ cases (Memorable in the number of times he dry heaved on the scene, at least) And would be lying if he didn't want the perpetrator who had caused that charged and put away, but there were _so many_ reports coming in now. It seemed like every day there was a new gang forming, and new sets of arson, burglary and murder; new scum coming up whenever they managed to scrape off the top layer of crime. The city was becoming a cesspool again, something that hadn't been seen since hell, the _seventies_ - and every day law enforcers and criminals kept on trying to get sparks ignited between them. It wasn't good.

And whoever _had_ done that was a sick son of a bitch… but he couldn't bring it in him to feel guilty about the victims. He had seen those cross guys on the street before. He didn't know where they came from, or if they were just 'hired help', but after that little stint, he hadn't run into any of those people causing trouble; as if their whole faction had been swept out.

If something got this case opened again, he had a sick feeling that they'd be delving deeper than the limited man power and monstrous amount of crimes could warrant nowadays.

"No," he said, carefully neutral. "I wasn't aware of that case." He glanced behind the woman, at the clock hanging above the doorway – where was the secretary, anyway? "Look, our book keeper is taking some time off, and I need to be heading out. Why don't you come in on another day, and we can hook you up with the right paper work?" He tried to sound convincing, like that line of action was better for both parties, but the woman suddenly got a dark look on her face.

"It's important," she urged, but Larson was already stepping back, into the safety of the offices, where he had hung up his jacket. "Really, I wouldn't make this sort of thing up-"

"Miss, we are _swamped_. I _really_ am sorry," he gestured to the form covered desk in between the both of them. "We do have several other locations that you can report to, and see if there is a better chance _there_, but I can't make any promises." Cynthia desperately watched the officer slip away from her, cowering back behind the wood and glass – he knew _something_ – she _knew_ he knew something! Her arms trembled and her teeth were grinding so hard against them that –

"Excuse me, miss?" she turned around at the hand on her shoulder. There was that man, who had been slumped against a corner, in a leisure suit. There wasn't a hair out of place on his head, and he was doing a fantastic job of looking ready to take on the world. "Is there something wrong?"

"The police here aren't much help," She said, grounding her words out, glad when he nodded in sympathy. "I was telling _him_-" she nodded to the inner parts of the station where Officer Larson had disappeared to, "That I had some information – you heard of that double homicide a few weeks ago – those two gang members that got killed nearby?"

"I did. It was horrible, those pictures – gruesome."

"I… yeah. Like something _inhuman_ did it, right?" She smiled when the man nodded. "No one is taking this seriously – I knew someone involved… he might get hurt, and I can't reach him."

As if on cue, the man slipped a small card out of his pocket. "I how you feel, really. Here," Cynthia took the business card. There was that small, triangular _Abstergo_ logo in the corner – which seemed to be popping up more and more these days – she glanced up at the man offering it. "I know; it's a drug company, right? But they've branched out. This one is a hotline that civilians can use when the police can't help. They file reports, get the details, and send it back to these guys – but they make _sure_ something gets done." He leaned into her face for the last part of the sentence, black eyes darting to the back of the room for a moment.

"It's worth a try," she muttered, slipping the piece of paper into the pocket of her jeans.

The stranger was smiling again. "It's worth more than that. Just, call them when you get home. They might be able to help you." He was stepping away now, and Cynthia hesitantly started moving towards the door of the station, suddenly not feeling quite so hopeless.

"I… that's a good idea. I'll do that. Really. Thank-you."

"No, thank _you_." He said, sitting down on an empty plastic chair. Cynthia let the wind smack her in the face, and she uttered a small prayer under her breath: _"Please, let Jonathan stay safe."_

The man in the business suit let his smile crumple back down into nothing when the woman left. He pulled out his phone, going straight to e-mail.

The sudden genocide of their hired runners had been a small thorn in Abstergo's side for a few days. If it was backlash from the Brotherhood, they didn't find anything. There had been no DNA other than the two victims. Nothing to pin down.

Until now, at least. He let himself grin once more as he tapped out a message to his superiors; although this time the expression held only malice.

**xxxx**

It was nearly April, and while there wasn't much in the way of blooming flowers or budding trees in New York Zero, there were, on some days, fleeting glimmers of sunlight that would stay just long enough to warm the air, like a brief touch; not yet close or bright enough to really make more than a few degrees of difference, but everyone still relished in it, looking forward to shedding heavy coats and enjoying spring weather.

Desmond was one of those people, hands stuffed in his pockets, he managed to feel moments of heat when the sun hit just below his hairline, and right above the hood hanging unused from his jacket. He was enjoying that feeling now, as he stood at one of the smallest lots he had ever seen, and it was filled to the brim of cars, scooters, and his favorite – motorcycles.

The economy was still crapshoot, and the gap between the few prospering juggernauts and the failing companies was getting bigger with each flash of the screens on Wall Street. A dealership nearby had been attempting to make some semblance of profit by cutting down prices on their stock, and that had Desmond staring fondly at the Harleys, Kawasakis - there were even a few Nimbus's for sale. Their paint reflected the dark shadows of the buildings and cars around them. He settled for staying on the sidewalk, not interested in getting roped in by the suited salesmen loping about, but _God_, they were beautiful; if some of the prices went down another two thousand, he'd probably be in there, haggling away.

He had been lost in half a daze, staring at the objects of his affections, before he saw a man coming towards him, tie side-swiped by the wind, asking him if he was interested in something. Desmond muttered a heart broken 'just looking' and wandered down the street before he let himself be convinced that he needed a motorbike. Well, maybe he did, actually. It would certainly beat riding subways; but the lot was far enough behind him, so he just pressed on.

It was late in the afternoon, too early for commuters, and too late for the part-time employees to be trading shifts, so the street he was on felt, in metropolis terms at least, lonely.

He didn't recognize the warmth on his neck anymore until it was blocked by a shadow.

He knew that someone was intentionally walking behind him, and his heart lurched for a flurried second until he managed to turn around and saw Alex.

Just Alex.

At some point his rather panicked mindset had made an exception for him. He smiled, and it was only a little bit out of relief, as he let the other man fall into step besides him. "I'm starting to get worried that you're just stalking me," he said, staring back out at the sea of asphalt in front of them.

"Then you're probably confusing your expressions. Most people don't smile at that."

"How'd you find me, anyway? Am I that noticeable from fifty flights up?"

"Your scent is," Alex said harmlessly. Desmond did a good job of not sputtering to a stop. He did, however, get a confused look on his face. "Well, increased speed, agility… the rest of my senses got upgraded too. Including this one," he tapped the other man's nose once, before putting his hands back into his pockets. Desmond didn't seem especially bothered whenever Alex ever did something like that – he didn't stiffen or get an anxious look whenever his arm was grabbed, or when the other man did something impulsive like that; not that Alex tried to make touching habitual, it was just a nice reminder once in a while that he even had the _option_ with Desmond.

"Oh." He scratched the side of his face lightly, feeling the smooth skin on his chin and jaw. He had finally gotten rid of the tired scruffle that had been working its way up his face. He never really thought a beard would suit him. "Well then, what do _I_ smell like?"

Alex winced a bit, trying to come up with an answer. "You know how you can walk into a bakery and smell cookies?"

"Yeah?"

"It's nothing like that." He glared up at the sky, full of thick clouds, and thought for a few more seconds. "…I can recognize if something _smells_ like you, or Dana, or someone else I've met – but I can't really _say_ that you smell like anything. You're part bonded molecules and amino acids and they're all arranged in a way that my mind recognizes it as you. It's just… I know it. I've been around you long enough, I guess. I can't explain it any better." He glanced back to his friend, and shrugged a bit. "And yeah, I guess that white _is_ pretty noticeable – even from really high stories."

"Knew it." Desmond brushed the front of his hoodie for good measure.

"If you had a phone, I could just, you know, _call_ you."

"A phone. Really. Alex, once upon a time, _you_ were being hunted by hundreds of armed men. Do you remember what _that_ was like?"

"I try not to. And I can take _out_ hundreds of armed men, so I guess laying low is a bit unnecessary for me."

Alex felt his ears prick a split second before the scream reached them.

It was from around the corner; and soon after that a gun shot went off. The scream was cut out. The whole thing was out of sight, but it had been easy enough to imagine a convenience store being robbed – especially in the area where they were. Alex could smell something else now, too – and this time he actually _did_ know what it was. It was like the scent of vinegar mixed with eroded metal and decaying earth. It was blood – it was death, and they were walking right into it.

He reached for his cell phone, already a scowl twisting itself sharply onto his face. "Stay here," he said quickly, pressing the piece of plastic into Desmond's hands and walking forwards. "If I don't come back in three minutes, call the police."

The other man furrowed his eyebrows and wanted to say something – start following Alex, even. But when he didn't respond Alex just turned his head back to him and Desmond could only figure out how to make himself nod, and he backed up a few feet so he was under a store awning, half heartedly hidden. "Why three minutes?" he whispered.

Alex couldn't manage a smile as he felt his arm move and twist into a blade. "What does it look like?" He rushed off, towards the noise, beating the cars that were able to rush past on the road, and Desmond had half a mind to sprint after him, just because he wanted to _see_ – _but then again_, he thought, remembering the cold of the alley and the blood and the stench of death so many days ago – he knew he was better off clutching desperately at Alex's phone, staring down at it as if it would give him some peace of mind.

_4:43 pm_

_4:44 pm_

At _4:45_ he flipped open the cover.

_"9-1-1 emergency,"_

**xxxx**

The room was dark. "How is the subject?" It was less of a question and more of a status update. The man who spoke was walking in lazy lines behind Warren Vidic, who had confined himself to a chair facing a rather empty-looking desk. There were some things that his superiors refused to discuss in e-mail, or video streams – there were always enemies lurking about, and they couldn't afford to give away anything. Not now. Not when they were this close.

"Subject Sixteen's health has been deteriorating rapidly," Vidic said emotionlessly, and if the man pacing behind him was any less collected, he might as well have slapped the doctor.

"Have you tried inducing a coma?"

"It wouldn't help," he says plainly, and the line feels like an excuse to the both of them – but it's true. He's not like Lucy; he doesn't get attached to these people – but even _he_ knows that it would waste even more time than possible psychosis would.

"How long until he dies from… what did you call this condition?"

"A Bleeding Effect, courtesy of my colleague. It appears that playing around in those memories for too long makes it harder for him to discern that he's not in the Animus – that he's in _present day_, even." He heard the pause of expensive shoes on expensive carpet and continued. "We are expecting another two to three months until he can no longer function. It is possible to extend his use if we lessen the time spent in the Animus-"

"Has he reached the Vault yet?" The words had acid to them.

"No,"

"Then why would you make the suggestion-"

"-It was one of the options!" Vidic hissed, before realizing that he had interrupted his superior. "…Sir. I am in favor of whatever gets us to our goal the fastest." Something prickled on the back of his neck as steps approached him. Alan Rikkin was standing right behind his seat now and the fiery pit of Hell he was currently trapped in had just frozen over.

"That's good to know." There were two coarse hands grasping the leather fabric from the back of the chair, and Vidic sat up that much straighter. It didn't help. He could still _feel_ him there, watching him like a bug under a magnifying glass. The silence stretched on for seconds – minutes- _hours_ – it didn't matter to him, he just knew it was too long. Finally, Rikkin stepped back again, resuming his pacing. Vidic wouldn't breathe out a sigh of relief until he was out of the man's office.

"Still," he said, back on subject. "We only have nine months before the launch date – possibly less, if those government specialists manage to worm their way into our accounting files."

"Yes," Vidic was more than aware of that. Not a day went by where he wasn't thinking about their millennia's worth of organization and planning. It seemed impossible that their final goal was so in reach; that he had such a huge part in it. Some days the idea felt like a mere dream to him, but with Rikkin repeating the facts, it felt more like a cold piece of metal digging into his brain – waking him up. Yes, this was reality, this _was_ real.

"There is a chance that Subject sixteen may not unlock the correct memories."

"We have been working on that now – trying to get the Animus to unlock more recent –"

"Ah, but tampering with the Animus takes time and money, and both are precious – _and_ limited. People, however, are not." Vidic squinted, blurring his vision until he could only make out dark shadows.

"What are you suggesting?"

Rikkin was slowly moving back to his desk, hand trailing over the wood as he went. "From some of your reports, we were able to come up with a list of several other descendants. Ones that may be vital to our success." He pulled out a file and slid it across the table, watching Vidic take it with predatory eyes. The page opened and several pages showed limited profiles: Pictures, ages, names – or _possible_ names – places of residence, and of course, a rather _extended_ family tree. "Go to page eight." He prompted, and Vidic obediently shifted until he was staring down at the image of a man – probably in his mid-twenties. "Desmond Miles," he said quietly, scanning the page. "Descendant of Ezio Auditore and… Altair Ibn – La'Ahad." The foreign names rolled of his tongue with ease; something gained from constant repetition of the words. "_Both_ of them?" He could practically hear Rikkin's lips sliding back to show tiny, pointed teeth. His expression was smug, and he continued to go down the report. "'Was born in one of the Assassin Communes in the Midwest.'"

"The one we found three months ago, to be precise." He said with pride. "The _Farm_, I believe they called it? Half a dozen escaped – but he ran away sooner than that."

"'Age sixteen. He's been spotted on numerous occasions in several areas around the United States' – but he's paranoid." Vidic was summarizing the file as he read. "Has trust issues. He quickly cuts what ties he has and flees at the first sign of trouble." He glanced up at his superior's expectant face. "This is the man you want us to find?"

"If Subject Sixteen cannot access the proper memories – _this_ man will," he leaned forward, as if trying to read the paper upside down. "And it's now known that Altair _also_ possessed one of the Pieces as well. He has a rather… _important_ lineage, coming from such a long line of assassins. A prodigy, almost. At least until he decided he'd be better off running away."

"If he's constantly moving though," Vidic felt his throat tighten as Rikkin stared back at him. "Then how can you expect us to collect him?"

"Doubting my decisions?"

"No, sir. Merely… curious."

Rikkin smiled slightly at that. "We just so happened to get a tip off, from our good friends in law enforcement. A woman claimed that a man by the name of 'Jonathan Fetcher' was working for her. He was allegedly at the scene of a double homicide last month. Jonathan Fetcher, of course, has no home address, telephone, or medical records available."

"And you believe that _he_ was the one who committed the crime?" That sickening smirk came back and Vidic was shifting in his seat before he realized it – trying to get away, almost.

"That's where it gets interesting. The woman said that someone else was with him during that time." He casually plucked the file out from Warren's grasp and sauntered off again. "I'm sure you're familiar with the Gentek fiasco in the summer of 2009?"

"The one we were managing? I believe everyone in the Civilized World has heard of that."

"The Blacklight Virus – taking up the name and appearance of one Alex Mercer, _ex_- Gentek scientist – still takes up residence there. He's too much of an empty threat now for the Military to take out. He hasn't made too much of a mess for himself after James Heller."

"Then it was him?"

"Him or a sawmill. The pictures are rather…" he could imagine the sneer on the other man's face, "…_gruesome_. It's not entirely out of the question that Alex Mercer and Desmond Miles are aware of one another."

"Are we expecting an attack?"

"No, we are expecting _sloppiness_. The Blacklight Virus is no stranger to fighting off guerillas, tanks and helicopters; if Miles has not been consumed by the Virus, it is quite possible that they have friendly relations. One that might prolong his stay in New York Zero."

"…Giving us more time to track him." Vidic finished.

"Exactly. We have our contacts, and we know who to look for. Don't worry about trying to _prolong_ the inevitable, Warren – within a few months we should have a Subject Seventeen under your care." Vidic felt his grin go sour as he turned his back from his boss. Rikkin had turned back to his files – wordlessly dismissed, he trudged back in a pensive silence to the Animus laboratories.

He hoped Lucy hadn't gone and given Subject Sixteen a secret break while he was gone.

**xxxx**

The sirens sounded and Alex was already half a block away. They were getting slower every day, it felt like. He cast a glance back at the convenience store, its glass windows shattered – only one of which was his fault – and a mob of people looking in. He had managed to shift into some ruffled looking woman that had emerged with the rest of the hostages. He had slipped by unnoticed, and only now did he let himself revert back to his default appearance.

At least this time, there wasn't much for the cops to run into except for a few blood splatters. It had been one man with a gun that had grabbed a teenager from the crowd and used for leverage. Alex watched eyeliner stream down the girl's face, throwing scared glances at the people around her – the adults, the ones that were supposed to protect her, but none of them moved, not even the cashier.

And then he came in.

He was shot. Three times, he thought. The man working the register must have recognized his face – even though he had gotten into the habit of differing from his rather iconic outfit, it was hard to forget someone who could shuck off bullets like raindrops. It had been easy enough to knock the man's gun and hostage away, before shoving the man into a shelf hard enough he was knocked out. He didn't really mind being the punching bag, or heading back out without a word of thanks. Maybe he'd get mentioned in passing, if someone handpicked this case out of the dozens that would show up on the evening news.

He rounded the corner, and saw Desmond, still standing there, numbly holding his phone.

"I'm back," Alex said plainly. "They're coming this way – the police. I don't really think we should stick around." He kept his brisk pace, and only had to look back once before Desmond began following him.

"Uh… Did you – ?"

"Kill anyone? No. There's still someone left to be prosecuted. I was just the bullet proof vest."

"I – you got shot?" Desmond quickly sprinted up to stare the other man down. His eyebrows went up into his hairline, and for a flash, his face had gotten pale enough to compare to Alex's complexion. "Oh my God…"

"What?" He watched Desmond reach out a hand to rest on his chest – right where his heart would be, if he was human.

As the fingers pressed, a flashing jolt of pain went through him. He was wrinkling his face up and hissing; shit, that _burned_. He jumped back, glaring under his hood. "What the hell did you _do_?"

"Nothing! I just touched them."

"Touched what?"

Desmond pointed to his chest. Alex looked down, and saw three small holes in his shirt, outlined in dark red.

He'd been shot.

And it showed.

And it _hurt_.

"Come on," he ground out, consciously stopping himself from putting his hand up to his chest to feel for himself. The pain would die down if he didn't irritate the skin any more. "I'll survive."

"But-"

"Trust me," Alex said, and it must have sounded convincing, because Desmond was still keeping up with him, and after another block, he handed Alex's phone back, silently. It took a minute before Alex actually acknowledged it. "Thanks," he murmured. He had forgotten what pain felt like. And what this internal… hunger was like, too. The need to consume; to restore himself. That stopped after the second Outbreak was gone – once he stopped taking damage, he could just use his excess biomass stored inside him for nutrition.

That had run out, apparently.

He'd have to find someone tonight. And even though something churned happily within him of the thought, he didn't feel at all relieved.

It had been so easy to fool himself into thinking that he wasn't a monster. That he didn't need to live in such a warped way; that he didn't need to kill to live.

This was one of the things he couldn't tell Desmond. He could feel the man's gaze on him, every once in a while; desperate to do something - to comfort or confront, he wasn't sure - but the man was _concerned_; he needed to know what was going to happen to Alex, but even if he drudged up the courage to ask, it wouldn't amount to much.

Alex knew he was being selfish; he was hiding the truth from the man next to him, but did he have a choice? Who would accept the Blacklight Virus – a thing that's human appearance was only skin deep? A thing that feasted on the species it so desperately wanted to be a part of? He wouldn't subject Desmond to that choice – he didn't _want_ to subject him to that choice: Even if he would figure it out, either by Dana or his own research, he didn't want to be the one to actually put into words the extent of his past.

Far behind them, the squad cars were pulling away. Far ahead of them, he could see red lights shining off cars and street lights; he could see mobs of people coming down the street in waves, and the giant stilts of steel and glass that he used as stepping stones. Desmond hadn't said anything since Alex had ordered him to move; where had he been going anyway? He wanted to apologize at least for that, but he couldn't seem to figure out how to unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I'm sorry," someone said. Maybe it was him; he couldn't tell.

"Don't apologize to _me_ if something's bothering you." Desmond said easily, sliding his gaze over.

"I just – " He couldn't say it. _He couldn't say it._

"It's fine." Desmond rolled his shoulders, glanced down, and gave Alex's hand a quick squeeze with his own. "You'll figure it out eventually." A street later Desmond pointed to a subway entrance and excused himself; Alex was left stumbling through the streets, waiting for darkness, a victim, or that overwhelming feeling of dread to just over take him already. Once, he stared down at his left hand and curled it into his fist.

Now his chest wasn't the only thing that was burning.

**xxxx**

**A/N: The second, third and forth scene take place oh, about one to two weeks after the first scene. That was unfortunately, left more ambiguous than I was hoping.  
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	9. Part IX: Bonding

Officer Larson stood by the doorway, trying to see the through the frosted glass. "It's ten o' clock," he said, staring at his wrist watch, his cell phone, and the large plastic school clock hanging on the wall. "It _is_ ten o' clock, right?"

Officer Velasquez was leafing through an ancient, dog eared magazine meant for women who belonged on reality TV. "Yep. It's ten." She said without bothering to check.

"Because he called us in at nine."

"Anthony Spiels is the Chief of Police for Manhattan," Velasquez responded, trying to find the portion of pages where two celebrities had their identical outfits compared side by side. "He's bound to be busy." She always liked to see if she had the same idea of who looked good in _what_ as the people who had a subscription to these things did. "We're lucky that we got to see him this _year_, actually." She resumed flipping through glossy pages and ads while Larson swayed anxiously besides her. "And don't look so nervous," she added in. "It's embarrassing."

"Two months is _soon_?" he let out a breath. "And, you know, the highest ranking member of the NYPD I've ever been _around_ for more than an hour is probably you," Velasquez quirked a little smile over that, put a tongue to her finger and opened up a stuck page talking about how Women Can Lose Fifteen Pounds in Two Weeks with some sort of folk remedy. "People like Spiels make me feel like I'm getting sent to the Principal's office in High school, again."

"_High_ school?"

"I was a rebel as a teenager," Larson said with an attempted air of coolness.

"Right. Well, you're barely _out_ of High School, as far as I'm concerned."

"…I'm twenty-six."

"Like I said." She looked up at him for the first time, examining his shiny forehead mopped under dark hair, and his green eyes. "Take a seat," she said. "Waiting is bad, but waiting on your feet is always worse."

"All right." Larson eased himself down into the plastic seat besides his partner. Just as soon as his feet were no longer fully supporting him, Chief Spiels came busting through the door with a thick mustache and a head of slowly disappearing salt-and-pepper hair; his eyes slits under his brows.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," he said. "You can come in now."

Officer Larson's groan seemed to echo off the tile.

Spiels had a penchant for expensive things, as one could easily tell upon walking into his office. If not from the lush carpet or shining leather and mahogany chair and desk combo, then by the fact that his room was at a rather balmy seventy degrees when the early April weather fluctuated between sixty and forty Fahrenheit.

Velasquez let Larson take the only guest chair available, facing Spiels. She began speaking first, handing him a manila folder. "You asked to see us, sir? About this case?" The man took the file and eagerly flipped through it, as if it contained some secret. His eyes flashed.

"Yes. Both of you were the first on the scene. We've received a few complaints."

"Complaints?"

"Just a civilian. She said she knew someone who knew someone…" Larson blinked a few times, and began to wring his hands together.

"Sir, why is that significant?" Velasquez said, tilting her head and glaring at the ornamental bookshelf behind Spiels. "This case is _months_ old. There's nothing to it."

Spiels slowly lowered himself back to his throne of a chair. Larson shifted again, since now he and Spiels were eye level. "You both were _there_," he calmly stated, though he leaned forward in an apprehensive manner, tapping some of the forensic photographs that had been taken that day. They were covered in yellow tape and blood. "You saw how the victims appeared to have been utterly obliterated; how there was almost nothing left." His dark eyes twitched between the officers and the papers on his desk. "What kind of person could have done this?" he whispered.

"We… we do have suspicions," Larson said, swallowing. He tried to ignore the man's eyes drilling into his own. "The first victim _did_ look like he had been hacked up until he resembled jelly. It isn't out of the question that perhaps someone… something – like Alex Mercer might have committed the act." Larson shuttered at the name.

"_Zeus_, you mean." Spiels said, glancing back down. "And did you find any evidence of him being at the scene? Perhaps there was someone else with him?"

"A surviving victim?"

"Or an accomplice," Spiels said lightly.

"I doubt he would need an accomplice," Velasquez spoke up. "And it doesn't matter, since forensics didn't pick up on anything except for the two lumps of flesh here." She nodded towards the displayed photographs.

He glared at them for a moment, and Officer Larson shifted in his seat again. "And?" he prompted.

"And what?" Velasquez responded coolly.

"There must be a suspect, at least. Something else?"

"Nope. Everyone is too spread out to do much these days. Forensics wasn't being that thorough anyway, I bet. Every piece of information we know about this murder is in that file you have there." She watched Larson grind his jaw; he really _did_ hate offices, huh? "Why are you so curious now, sir? If I might ask-"

"No, you can't." He shook his head. "I could've sworn… And you're sure there's _nothing_?"

"Positive. If you'd like, we can request the Federal government to send us information on Alex Mercer; his occupations, known locations – if you're so inclined to put him in a line up."

Spiels had glazed over as she spoke; still staring down at the forms she had dropped off. He grunted, after a moment, and before they knew it both policemen had been pushed out the door.

"Oh look, ten fifteen." Larson pointed out. He felt sweaty and his stomach was twisted into a Gordian knot. "Why'd he even make an appointment with us?"

"At least it was warm in there," Velasquez muttered, holding her hands together. She didn't like Spiels; not one bit. But she wasn't about to stick around and hold a water glass up to his offices to find out what he was _doing_. She nodded towards the doorway. "Come on, I'll buy you a cookie for being such a good sport."

**xxxx**

"_Seriously?_" Dana stopped herself from spitting out her drink. "A _strip club_ – you worked at a _strip club_?" Desmond laughed at the stares Alex and Dana gave him.

"It was a pretty wholesome place," he argued, trying to cover his ass. "Nobody got naked; they just wore sexy outfits and growled out some suggestive show-tune numbers for an hour every night. There were barely any poles around – I mean they could be fully clothed and in a chair and then they'd do this thing with their legs and then it got as explicit as hell, but they never took _everything_ off."

Dana gave him a look.

"I was seventeen at the time!" He exclaimed, practically throwing his arms in the air. "It was the only place that didn't care about my age _or_ the fact that I knew _nothing_ about bartending." He lidded his eyes as he thought back on it: "And they could pay me less than minimum wage."

They all paused as a casually dressed waiter brought them their food. Spring was slowly attempting to reacquaint itself with New York, and though it was still too cold to wear shorts or a T-shirt, the three had all puttered around the commercial district of Manhattan, a week before Spring Break commenced and the tourists took over. As was the pattern for the city. There were the skinny planted trees and flowers boxed in on the sidewalks, all of them growing a feeble green and opening up sticky petals, stretching towards a steadily warming sky. More and more people were on the streets, instead of dashing from subway stations or taxi cabs like they had in the winter. The café they were at was open air, as well. Though that was more for lack of space than appearance. They could all turn a bit and stare at the street before them; and, a few blocks down, the growing mass of vegetation in Central Park, clearly visible against the concrete and metal patchwork of the city, which had even begun to show a bit more color, growing more vibrant at its personal, sluggish pace.

"So tell me more about this place," Dana said, leaning forward, over her lunch. "See any cute co-workers?"

"I was too busy doing my _job_, Dana. I watched, I was entertained for a consecutive five minutes where no one was calling on me, and I mixed some martinis until three a.m."

"Learn any dance moves?" Alex said before reaching for a glass of water.

He was halfway done draining it before he realized the two hadn't taken their eyes off of him. "…What?"

Desmond had sucked in his cheeks and turned a mild shade of magenta, while tears of unshed laughter sprang into Dana's eyes. "I don't fucking believe it!" she cried out. "He has a sense of humor! He has a sense of humor somewhere in that hoodie of his!"

"Wasn't funny to me," the flushing man muttered, as both men yanked their hoods farther over their heads. Desmond sunk into his seat as Dana came close to falling off hers. "Is your sister always like this?" he asked – well, pleaded – to Alex.

"Yes. She told me that she's twenty-five now, but I don't believe her."

Desmond gave a casual glance at Dana, who had calmed down to the point of light giggles every few moments; she still had her lips pulled so taut from smiling that they looked like they were about to split. "When did you turn twenty-five?"

"A week ago or so." She was trying to frown but couldn't quite manage it.

"Oh. I'm twenty-five till January." He admitted, straightening up and pouring ketchup on his basket of fries. "How old are _you_?"

Alex shifted his gaze between the two until Dana lost patience and blurted out; "Thirty-one. Goddamn, you are _so_ _old_ – I like to remind him,"

"Every single day."

"Well, at least the Blacklight Virus doesn't age." Desmond tried to offer. "I guess, technically, Alex 2.0 is only what, _three_, at most?" The silence sat uncomfortably in the air. When Desmond looked up, the two weren't staring at him, open mouthed with disgust like he had feared they would be; they were just picking at their orders. Dana stabbed a piece of chicken in her taco salad with enough force to break off the shell the food was sitting in. And Alex wasn't so much as eating now rather than staring sourly into his drink, thinking.

Something told him their reactions were his fault.  
>Desmond pushed his chair back and excused himself for a minute. Or two hours. The second the bathroom door swung closed behind him, the atmosphere lost half of its nervous pressure. Desmond let out a huge breath, supporting himself on the sink. <em>This<em>, he thought with great embarrassment, was _not_ the first time he had shoved his foot so far into his mouth that his shoe became a choking hazard. It wasn't easy, talking to either sibling. One moment they would be making pleasant small talk, and the next it had felt like he had over stepped a boundary. In some ways, he thought he was special: Alex Mercer had seeked him out; talking to him, befriending him, trying to convince him that he wasn't a complete monster – _which he wasn't_ – and Dana was always an easy presence compared to her brother, if only because she didn't have the baggage of _not_ being _human_ anymore. He had known the both of them, their real identities, at least – for a few weeks now. A few weeks of random visits and long held conversations and he _still_ felt like an outsider to the both of them.

The feeling wasn't anything he was new to, of course. But the fact that he was trying; that he didn't _want_ to be an outsider? It made the wall he kept on running in to hurt more and more.

He stared at his reflection: His hair was starting to grow out from the crew cut he had done a while ago. He wondered briefly if he could dye his hair for inconspicuous purposes. As he inspected the scruff of what might have been a beard; the pores on his face, and the only half-gone bags under his eyes, he heard the door open behind him.

"Oh, you're still here," Dana said, making Desmond jump and do a rapid one-eighty. "Calm down. It's coed here."

"_Holy shit_," Desmond muttered, grappling against his jacket, feeling the jump of his heart beats. "What's with the _Sneaking up on Desmond_, huh? Is it like some sort of _hobby_ for you people? You could just like, say hi…" He paused, swallowing. "Sorry. I just – I made things awkward again, I guess."

Dana walked over to him. "We're both just glad that you didn't run off. Trust me, it feels a little weird for us, too. Especially him," she cast a glance back to the door.

"It just always feels like I bring up some sensitive topic," Desmond said sullenly. "It's like I can't say anything without the whole Outbreak being forced open. He could at least give me, I don't know, a warning? A _List of Subjects to Avoid_, maybe?" He squinted. "Did that sound selfish?"

"A little." Dana leaned against the sink counter. "But you're right: Alex is… difficult. It _was_ worse, actually. After the Infection originally ended, he kept on fighting in the Red Zones that were left. He had all these memories… Did he tell you about that? These flashes he would get?"

"Not really."

Dana got an annoyed look, furrowing her brows and worrying her lips until they sat in a downcast crescent on her face. Her eyes were still on the wood of the bathroom door. "He doesn't seem to realize the 'talking it out' method would actually fucking _help_ him." She sighed. "Fourteen months after the Outbreak, he infected this veteran, Joseph Heller, with his strain of the Blacklight Virus."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I think it was his own sense of compassion: The man went there on a suicide mission, and to that_ bastard_, I guess becoming all powerful was a fate worse than death." The dripping faucet punctured Dana's words. "Well, I guess Heller got what he wanted, in the end." Desmond let the implication of Dana's speech soak for a bit.

"After that, my brother decided that New York wasn't exactly the best place for him. He kind of… ran off."

"How long?"

"A little over a year, according to him. He came back when Dr. Ragland contacted him about me." She swallowed, pressing forward. "I saw him in March, 2011. He was… calmer. He had a better handle on who he was – _what_ he was. But it's still hard for him, with all these people around. Sometimes I get the feeling that this city brings back too much fucking baggage for him."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault; it's the… first Alex Mercer's fault. He was the _real_ bastard – monster – you know."

"If you can say that about your own brother, he must've been an asshole."

"Damn straight. I mean, he wasn't always a sociopathic fucktard. But we went through a lot. Even before Gentek. Foster care, family problems and shit. It's a Freudian excuse, and compared to what he _did_, it's _bullshit_, but I still _loved_ him – I had to, you know? He was my _brother_… it didn't mean I had to _like_ him, though. He sure as hell didn't like me."

"The way Alex said it… he made it seem like it was an accident. The Outbreak." Of course, Alex had only told him who _he_ was, not what the human Mercer was like, or much else, for that matter.

Dana rolled her eyes at the statement, anger flaring under her skin. "Bull shit. The first Alex Mercer _stole_ the Blacklight Virus as leverage and smashed it open in Penn Station when Gentek hired some assholes to track him down. It was only dumb luck that his corpse had enough bullet holes to let the virus grow inside of him; he started the Outbreak out of spite. He didn't even warn me, you know."

Desmond looked down at Dana, who held a hand up to her forehead, as if she had a migraine. "That doesn't sound like the Alex I know."

"_You_ know a different Alex." She answered back. "And maybe that's why he can talk to you – there's no _Alex One_ to compare, there's no, "_Number One Terrorist_" flashing in your head every minute. That's why he gets so silent when you bring it up; he doesn't _want_ you to know – to think that he's less than you."

"I wouldn't think less of him," Desmond argued, feeling his gut clench in uncertainty. The doubt must have been audible, because Dana put her hand down against her thigh and gave him a look.

"He's different from the human Alex. And from the videos people took of him running around during the Outbreak. He has more respect for human life. More than my real goddamn brother did, actually."

"I can believe that, at least." Dana nodded a bit, quirking her mouth. "He's not the only one with issues."

"That's why he trusts you. You don't have it easy either, from what Alex tells me. Which isn't much," she finished hastily, watching the other man's eyes go wide in a look of surprise. If he didn't want to share, she wasn't about to tie the man up and demand answers; as long as he wasn't a spy for Blackwatch or anything, she couldn't really care. "He puts you on a pedestal, I think. Because you don't judge him; because you befriended him even though you've had every opportunity to push him out of your life; he wants you around because you make him… fit in, I guess."

"Does he say that?"

"Fuck no. He'd probably ignore me for a month if he heard me tell you this. He insists that he doesn't _need_ to act like everyone else – that he doesn't _want_ to be accepted as if he was one hundred percent human – but he does. And he can't, because he isn't _like_ everyone else. But when people like _you_ come along… it's like he has a cure to all that."

Desmond blinked, and shifted on his feet a bit. "He thinks I'm some solution to his problem? He thinks I'm going to _fix_ him?"

"He probably doesn't think that. He just likes talking to you. Of course, this is just what the third party thinks, with her Masters in Literature and six years worth of reading in between the lines to find what might or might not even fucking _be_ there. So try not to not to let me make you paranoid or anything."

"Trust me, I don't need help."

"I bet," she said, a bit of a smile forming, dead on the bottom half of her face. Desmond ducked his head for a moment, and decided that whether or not Dana was expositing too much on her brother's character study, he never felt like he was performing an act of community service around Alex, anyway. He wasn't the easiest person to deal with, but then again, neither was he.

"I understand." Desmond said finally, looking up to meet Dana's gaze. "But I can't be close to him if he doesn't let me _talk_ about anything."

"That's something that you two are going to have to work on." She said lightly, as if she were a marriage counselor getting ready to end a session. She walked back to the door. "Ready to face him again?"

Desmond shot for a reassuring smile that looked mostly convincing as he walked up behind Dana. "Like I said, I worked in a strip club – I can handle a lot of situations most people can't."

"Because talking to my brother and working in a strip club are _totally_ the same thing," she said.

"Well, I'll know how to get him to pay attention, right?" And Desmond almost laughed when Dana gave him a rough punch in the arm.

**xxxx**

"_We didn't ask for your help if you were just going to spit back facts and theories at us,_" a low voice hissed into Anthony's ear. Through the phone, Spiels could taste the cold anger fixing itself into the other man's voice. They were states away at least, and he was shuttering at the sound of it anyway.

"Paperwork can only take me so far," he said right back. "The crime report is three pages, including the pictures. There's not much I can-"

_"I don't keep you in your position so I can hear excuses, Spiels. Dig. Deeper. That's what we asked you to do yesterday."_

Anthony glared out the venetian blinds of the windows. "Alright."

"_Alright?_"

"I've been calling the Military branches of the Government for the past hour."

_"For what?"_ The voice sounded highly apathetic.

"Alex Mercer's home address."

_"So you have confirmation that it _is_ him?"_

"The best I can get at the moment."

He heard a disapproving scoff that drifted through the lines. _"The best _you_ can do at the moment is severely lacking in Abstergo standards."_

"I'm sure. We've already had one third of our force get either cut or quit. Or murdered on the clock."

_"And you'll see more than half of the remainder – including yourself – get removed if you can't deliver by September. That's four months, in case you were confused about _that_, as well. So tell me, Spiels, what _is_ this plan of yours?"_

"If Desmond Miles _does_ have contact with Zeus, then it isn't out of the question that he will be visiting or possibly living in the Blacklight's quarters."

_"We've surveyed that place months ago; it's abandoned."_

"That might change if Zeus has someone who needs a place to stay. And since the Virus _clearly_ isn't hosting cocktail parties, if we see anyone unusual enter his home, then, well, we have a lead."

There was a crackle of static to go with the considerable pause. "_That plan sounds…_" the syllables passed by in another blast of cold air. The reluctance to speak complimentary of anything grated on the Chief's ears. _"…Reasonable. You will have to be the overseer of this situation we have. We have been… busy."_

Anthony was smiling despite the man's frigid tone. "And if I do succeed in assisting Abstergo?"

"_Then you can see to it that you'll have a rather cushy tax funded job for many more years with us. Don't start gloating yet, Spiels,"_ the tone quickly turned back to one of loathing and contempt: _"We _are_ on a strict time limit. It is a _fact_ that our guinea pigs don't last too long."_

"Good, good. I'm glad I can be of help." Anthony tossed his gaze back to the center of his room, to the guest chair. "I _did_ want to inquire about actually _joining_ your ranks, if this plan was to come to a successful fruition..." He paused, and pulled back the receiver an inch or two.

The line had long since gone dead.

**xxxx**

"Trust me, you guys, my life isn't as exciting as you think," Desmond was saying, though most of his ire was being directed at Dana as she continued to pry those little tidbits of his past from him; the ones he had been holding on to so closely for the last few years of his life. "You can stop asking for story time now." He kicked at a rock on the dark paved road as the three of them passed through Central Park's West Strip.

"How do you think _my_ life's been?" Dana argued. "Investigative journalism is less fun than you'd think: It's less Spy work and a shitload more of just sitting in front of a computer breaking encryptions and annoying the right type of people on the phone until they have no choice but to divulge some information."

"That's how she got so good at it," Alex muttered, leaning towards Desmond a bit.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Dana gave him an annoyed look. "And Alex doesn't really have any tales of adventure that he hasn't already told you," She paused. "Or is willing to share, at least. Or hasn't been on the news." Desmond made a point to not stare at either siblings as she said that.

"Well, what about you?" Desmond asked hurriedly. "You were here during the Outbreak, weren't you?"

Dana gave Alex an uneasy glance, which Desmond didn't notice. The silence, however, was still not lost on him.

"Did I say something I shouldn't have again?"

"The Outbreak was a hard time for everybody in Manhattan; Mercer family included." She said, her eyes slightly downcast. She stared at her black and white tennis shoes for a moment; Alex's face was like stone.

"Well, Gentek had been trying to find the both of us,"

"And they did," Alex ground out. "And when I finally got my sister back –"

"I was in a coma," she finished in a solemn voice. "It was like a fucking soap opera, I swear to God. It was twenty one months. I stayed with a man named Ragland. He was an ally to both of us. The Outbreak ended – _twice_ – and when I woke up Alex was standing over me telling me that my biological brother was dead, and _he_ was the whole reason the Outbreak started in the first place."

Alex gave her a glance and Desmond thought that he looked almost _pained_, as if Dana being hurt had weakened him, too. Of course, she was the reason he had even come _back_ to the city. They had something important. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, listening as Alex finished what Dana couldn't; not taking his eyes off of her. "It was head trauma," he said, addressing her more than Desmond. "That's why she was out. It was like you were sleeping. And that was the worst. If it was touch and go then there would be doctors swarming and a billion new drugs being tried. _Then_ at least it would feel like something was getting _done_."

"Alex said it was like watching a corpse and hoping it would come back to life," Dana murmured into the sidewalk. "And by the time I had recovered, everyone else had moved on – well, the _news_ had, at least. I'd missed the fucking story of the century."

The three continued down the pathway, wading into the wooded areas. Dana and Alex were two steps ahead of Desmond, walking side by side: He could so easily see the two of them forming a team; working in tandem – the brains and the brawn, the caretaker and the protector.

Brother and sister.

"You guys are lucky," He said slowly, as the two siblings turned around to look at him. Two steel blue pairs of eyes watched him with burning intensity that he could have flinched away from. He swallowed loudly, trying to compose himself. "I mean, no matter what, you'll always have each other." He tried to smile, a small inkling of upturned lips as frail as the blooming plants around them; something that slowly grew into a concrete thing as Dana mirrored it back to him, and Alex put on a handsome smirk in response.

"You're right," Dana answered gently, after a moment. Then she added, "And you have us, too." She moved to the edge of the path so that Desmond could step forward, allowing him to walk besides the two Mercer siblings, step by step, down the road. "Remember that."

**xxxx**

**A/N: I think I wrote that restaurant scene after watching **_**Burlesque**_**. Yeah. Sorry. Of course I think that Desmond was/is a total BAMF who can get anyone's number if he tries.  
><strong>


	10. Part X: There's no Us in This

**Part X: There is no Us in this**

"Does this feel weird to you?" Alex asked out loud. Desmond turned to try and meet his gaze, but the other man was content on just watching the packed streets before them. It was eleven o' clock on a Tuesday afternoon: The sweltering heat of late May had come in at full blast; the thick grey clouds above and the dark steel and asphalt below acted as strong holds to keep the humid air still and looming within the city; everyone who didn't have to leave their environment-controlled skyscrapers chose not to today, it seemed. Though Desmond was still getting shoved this way and that if he slowed down his pace to anything below a mild jog.

"What does?" Desmond asked.

"Nothing… Just, feels like we're on a date, or something," Alex clogged up his response with buffer words and mumbles, obviously feeling slightly off-put for having brought up the entire subject in the first place.

Desmond had the good grace needed to act neutrally to this statement; he shrugged as he shot back, "We _are_ hanging out – that's pretty much what a date is. Two people hanging out, really."

"Two people that _like_ each other," Alex added.

"Well, _I_ like you." The two paused as they saw a small band of mustard yellow taxis go by; their speed feeling almost muted. "But it doesn't mean we're on a date," Desmond added, after they passed by and the crosswalk popped up a white walking figure. "We're just hanging out, as friends."

"Right."

"Don't sound so disappointed."

"I'm not,"

Desmond tried smiling. "I was kidding. Jeez, any room for humor here, Alex?"

The subject quickly went stale, and the two walked down a few blocks in silence, letting the city do most of the talking: The murmuring of the general population; honks; brakes screeching, and the ever present sound of construction carried through the heavy air; showing how the seemingly solid city was still undergoing repairs and other, smaller mutations right under the skin. It was never _done_, New York. Desmond stepped to the side of an unused paint scaffolding and decided that the city would probably be a lovely place – provided somebody just _finished_ it.

"Well," Desmond gave out a sigh. "What are we doing today?"

Alex scanned the monstrous buildings as they left the enclosed neighborhoods a few blocks South: Now it was only twenty stories and up. "I… don't know. Do you have anything planned?"

"You're the one who's lived here his entire life."

"Well, 'my entire life' isn't as long as you'd think. If we went out later we could've gone down to SoHo. Dana goes down there all the time, with her friends; I guess it's the best Night Life Scene Ever, from the way she talks about it."

"Alex, I _work_ during the Nightlife. I _know_ what it's like. I wanna know how it feels to wake up at some point _before_ three in the afternoon." At that point, he let out a yawn, clasping a hand to his mouth.

"When did you go to sleep last night?"  
>"Two,"<p>

"And when did you get up?"

"Seven…" He slid his gaze over to Alex. "I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah… I know the feeling."

**xxxx**

Pale slabs of stone were piled up high into a large square building on Broadway. In between the first and second floor there was a stretching red banner up permanently, addressing the store as '_The Strand'._

"You read?" Alex inquired, staring at the full to bursting bookshelves through the clear windows, they were halfway past the shop now, getting close to the doors.

"No, I'm illiterate." Desmond reached for the clasp on the glass door, abruptly stopping at he let the both of them through. "No cell phone, no iPod, I typically don't bother with TV either… what _else_ am I supposed to do?"

"Good point."

"What about you?" Desmond said, walking left, right, left, right, through the tables in the front, stocked with stamped bags and overpriced notebooks and bedazzled pens that wouldn't work, trying to get to the back of the room.

"There was that one; _Closing Time…_" he remembered, saying it halfway to himself. He had gotten half done with it before it had just vanished from the coffee table; probably due to Dana's rare instance for cleanliness in her home, which mostly meant shoving everything that wasn't a form of furniture into a closet or a cupboard. It'd show up eventually, he figured.

"That was good," Desmond said, nodding his head. "I think I left that one somewhere in the southwest a while back."

"Is there a place you _haven't_ been?"

"Maine?" he said, scrunching his eyes up in thought.

Alex gave the other man an exasperated look as they wound their way downstairs; the ceiling was lower here, and half of the shelves were empty. It smelt like the moldy, yellow pages of a first edition. Alex wrinkled his nose for a few breaths as he attempted to adjust. "Have anything in mind?"

"Nope."

He let the other man wander ahead of him, stopping to read a few back-cover summaries: _The Psychology of Children_ from five years ago; memoirs of B-List celebrities, and a few pocket books of Ancient Philosophers in spruced up titles. If someone thought about it, the idea of leafing through the hundreds of thousands of books to find something of value would have seemed fruitless and too boring to bother with, but as it stood Alex was moving away paperbacks and hard covers to look at the next title or writer or picture of interest.

By the time he had picked up a third novel he was determined to buy, (_Alamut_, a 1938 story by Vladimir Bartol) He was being tapped on the shoulder by Desmond, holding a shiny hardcover.

"_Alamut_?" He said, eyeing the dark yellow cover. "Can't remember how many times I've read _that_ thing."

"Is it good?"

"I stopped noticing after I turned twelve; do you like historical fiction?"

"I'm not sure." Alex looked down the mere inch that separated them in height and blatantly asked if there was any book that Desmond _hadn't_ read.

"Um, _The Notebook_…?" The subject of chick flicks and 'girly-books' had often been started up between Dana and a few of her visitors, usually with Alex being dragged in, due to his determination to not leave his sister's apartment in favor of his own, unused, down the street.

"That sort of implies that you've read the other ones…" Alex said lightly, as they ascended the stairs.

"Look, I get it. _The New York Time's_ Best-seller list isn't very reliable. I thought that the promise of a movie deal meant that it was something worth reading."

"What _are_ you reading?"

"_At Least in the City Someone Will hear me Scream_," he said, reading off the bold font. There was a raccoon inspecting a lamp in the tall grass.

"Sounds pleasant."

"The guy got attacked by a coonskin cap first thing." Desmond supplied, staring at the cover and speaking as if he was impressed. "Best opening to a memoir I've ever read."

"Something tells me you're not for reading Homer or Shakespeare or anything like that." The other man wrinkled his nose a bit; the reaction was not from the stagnant smell of the room, either.

"God, no. I read to be _entertained_. Why would I bother with crap I can't understand?"

Alex wasn't quite sure what to say in response. The bright lights and ornate shelves of the main floor slowly came into view as they reached the main level. He watched a family of four stop at some large, brightly illustrated book, and a young woman pick out some college sized textbook on another side of the wall. The view of the street looked dark and bleak compared to the organized color of the Strand. A young man with red hair stood behind the long desk; he was the only one working a cash register, at the moment. Alex turned to Desmond, "Can I see your book, for a second?"

"Sure," Desmond stared off into the distance, his head turned to the right slightly as he looked away. His fingers hit Alex's wrist for a moment, feeling cool against his skin.

He remembered to take the book, after a few moments of bewildered staring.

"These four," Alex said, dumping the books onto the polished wood. The man had wordlessly rung them up, reaching for a bag while Alex fished into his pocket for a wallet, wordlessly handing the man a green Visa.

"My treat," he cut in, turning to Desmond. He smiled, hoping that the other wouldn't get offended.

"I… thank you," he offered a friendly face as he reached across the counter to take the white bag. "I didn't know you carry a wallet,"

"You have to, right?"

"Well, yeah, but," Desmond shifted a bit, squinting and looking at his surroundings as they got onto the street.

"Wondering where I get the money?"

"Is it legal?" he asked timidly, raising an eyebrow towards Alex.

"Some of it is,"

"Then just tell me that, then."

"I… well, the previous Alex Mercer was a scientist. A scientist who could live in a high rise off of Madison. I had money to spare."

"And it wasn't taken away?"

"I'm pretty sure I pay more in New York taxes, just because of the collateral damage I've caused," he shrugged, motioning for the other man to cross the street. "But allowing me to keep a small fortune in savings and stock bonds was just government incentive for me to not…"

"Go out and break more shit?"

"Well, if you want to be eloquent about it."

The two smiled at that, slowing their pace slightly. Desmond spoke again. "I guess I never figured that you would – I mean, do you like, go grocery shopping?"

"If Dana doesn't, sure."

"…Shower?"

"I still have pores – and dirt still sticks to me, Des-" He stopped suddenly, and saw Desmond giving him a sharp look. "…Geoff."

'_Geoff'_ paused, as if trying to tell if anyone had stopped and looked at the two of them. He continued, as if the slip up hadn't happened. "What about clothes?"

Alex felt his lips slide up into a smile; revealing white teeth. "There's actually a story to that one," he said.

"Really."

"Well… in the beginning, my… appearance; my hair, my skin, my body, it was just _clothed_. The jacket and shirts were just a _part_ of me. Like skin."

"Right."

"And it wasn't until weeks later when I realized that most people could take _off_ what they were wearing, and they had… _stuff_, underneath. So I made a few changes,"

Desmond snorted. "And here I am, totally wearing regular human clothes." He held out his arm, wrapped in a grey zip up jacket; a black shirt sleeve clutching tightly at his wrist as the looser grey cuff slipped away. Desmond put his hand on the shirt, pinching the fabric, feeling the threads pull with him.

"Don't know why you wear ten shirts if your body temperature's a constant 108." he said, finally taking his hand away.

"Dana said the same thing."

The two took a right, walking through the late afternoon rush of people getting back to work. "Can you eat?"

Alex paused for a moment, then hastily said, "Everything with a mouth can _eat_, I'm pretty sure."

"Say, tacos."

"Sure, I can eat tacos, or sushi, or hamburgers – you've seen me eat before."

"Well, does it have any nutritional value? Like, do you have hunks of raw cow in the fridge or something?"

"I don't think Dana would like that…"

"Don't you have your own apartment?"

"Not one that I use,"

"Wow, you _did_ make a lot of money,"

"I guess. Well, I'm not exactly passing out from exhaustion, here. And I don't look malnourished, do I?" he gestured to himself and tried to stop a mild surge of bile and nausea from rising in his throat as he talked about the subject of _food_.

"I don't know; you could have ribs poking out or something, but we'd never know because you wear so much stuff."

"…I'm not taking my shirt off for you." Alex said defensively. "Why did you mention food, anyway?"

"I'm hungry. Are there any good Mexican places near here?" he began to look around at the banners and signs in the bright shop windows.

"You're in New York Zero," Alex deadpanned. "You can get a quesadilla at three in the morning here within a two minute walk and a subway ride."

"You can do that anywhere that has a Taco Bell, too, you know." Desmond argued. "Or a very nice cougar,"

Alex missed a step and nearly stumbled right into Desmond. "_What_?"

"There's a story to that one, too. You find me a Mexican place and maybe I'll fill you in."

**xxxx**

Walking out of the restaurant some time later, both Desmond and Alex observed that the sky had adopted an odd tint; as if it had been punched particularly hard a week ago and was just starting to form a sickly green bruise. It was four o' clock in the middle of Manhattan, but it felt more like the midnight storm on a fabled sailing ship with the way everyone would cautiously cast their gaze upward, waiting for rain to start falling down like small stones.

"New England has pretty shitty weather," Desmond said as the two moved further down the street, heading to where his slow accumulation of geographical knowledge recognized as Times Square. He licked his lips and tasted mild salsa and biting Spanish rice still warming his throat. "Don't you guys get _tornadoes_ here, too?"

"They're just strong gusts of winds, really,"

"Maybe for you. Everywhere I go things are turning to hell. Feels like the world is ending, you know?"

Alex gave him a look. "I think you're being a wuss. Weather isn't going to transform you into a lethal mutant."

"…It might," Desmond attempted. "Should we head over to Times Square? They're the closest subway stations." Alex shrugged, his attention elsewhere, and Desmond assumed that Alex had figured out where they were going about half a block ago, anyway. He was the New York native, after all. "This was fun," Desmond supplied, after a moment. "I've never been down here, before."

"I don't really spend a grandiose amount of time here either."

"Nice language,"

"'Grandiose' and 'language' are about the same length anyway."

"I love picking on you Alex," he gave his friend a light push on the shoulder. "Haven't you realized it before?"

"You're not the only one who likes to use me for a punching bag."

"Yeah well I don't actually _punch_ you." They rounded the corner, and the pair of them were at the junction of Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Suddenly the streets expanded and condensed at the same time – traffic bogging down the wider sweeps of road before them. Desmond, almost perplexed as to why everything was bustling _here_, paused in his usual examination of Alex and instead looked more at his surroundings.

With the stormy sky, it felt like it was almost nighttime, and when he looked up, Desmond Miles could see the luminescent screens pinned to the buildings like glowing, sky-high posters, all competing for his attention. Images of _Coca_-_cola_ and _Hershey's_ and _Apple_ phones and _Broadway_ shows all crashed down upon him in a mess of blinking, fluttering, glittering pixels, swirling from screen to screen and lighting up the streets around them in purples, whites, yellows, oranges, blues, greens, reds and any other color that had been bothered to have been invented. Desmond had, up until this point of his life, avoided the cities – especially this one. Maybe once or twice he had seen some movie, or read some passage in a book that talked about Times Square – the Crossroads of the World – not that he could recall any _now_, his mind slowing down only enough to process and take small steps. He didn't feel a jolt in his neck as he craned his eyesight as far up as it could go, and he didn't let a hot flush of embarrassment rush through him when he stumbled on the sidewalk for a moment. He was trapped within the throngs of people – pushing or shouldering their way past the obvious tourist, probably even muttering to themselves about him as they went on, but Desmond wasn't focusing on any of _that_, any of that human and mortal _rubbish_. For a few moments he felt as if he was observing something higher than himself; higher than anything of this Earth had a right to be, and all the while this divine epiphany was being communicated to him through a flashing _Budweiser_ bottle. But that didn't matter to him, because Desmond could only see _lights_.

He elbowed Alex in the ribs a bit harder than necessary, wordlessly inviting him to get lost in the same image; the same unnaturally splendid and artificial reverie he was enjoying.

Alex Mercer's imagination, however, was not nearly as pleasant.

He had sunk into an old familiar feeling; one he hadn't experienced in years. It took him back to a dark corner of his mind that he had tried to push out; those first days of life made of bloodlust and raw anger – those days when he truly was the Monster everyone said he was - something that he had always tried to hide from himself. The confusion and pain that came with memories resurfacing, he thought, were long over, but now there was a ringing in his ears, and his teeth were grinding and his eyes were clenched shut and it took every muscle he had to stop himself from falling onto the pavement.

How could he not remember Times Square? A New York minute of biomass, blood and broken streets; a day in late July where he had been flung into buildings by his own creation; those moments where he thought that he would surly die; the realization of how much humanity hated him, loathed him, wanted to _destroy_ him.

How could he not remember James Heller? How that man would have rather _died_ than be what Alex was – what Alex had _let_ the man become; out of pity? Out of compassion? Out of some desperate loneliness created by being the only living sample of the ragged disease that killed virtually everything it touched?

He had always known that there was a bridge between himself and the rest of the human race, but it was that moment two years ago that he had realized that it was more than a bridge, or a chasm – he was _worlds_ apart. Dimensions apart. He was meant to be isolated in a test tube or disposed of in a vat of acid; not living and running around and killing what he was – killing what he had _made_. As much as he denied and blocked off and tried to forget, murdering James Heller had led to a small death of himself. Maybe that was why he had left the city for so long: And now he was being haunted by something not _lost_, but just forgotten, and buried.

And as he remembered, more voices returned to him, yelling and crying and overwhelming him completely. The voices of the innocent and the damned; Blackwatch, co-workers, enemies, marines, innocent bystanders were all speaking to him like when he had first began consumption. It was like cracking open an old chest of secrets; the specific deaths or names of the ghosts had faded, but he could still _hear_ them, just like three years ago.

And he was alone with those voices, trapped in his head.

Alex began to sink a bit; not a complete fall, but his knees bent at sharp angles as he cradled his head for a minute. As long as it took for the mental apparitions to fade back into the mist again. He was vaguely aware of people stopping and staring and pointing him out. Even more so he could feel that Desmond was holding him tightly, by his arm and around his bent back, trying to get a reaction and affirmations of his being alright.

There was a sinking feeling that he owed Desmond an explanation.

"Are you okay?" Desmond repeated for the fourth time. It was the first that Alex made an attempt to answer. It was like watching the beginning of a hospital drama: A perfect scene punctured by someone collapsing and being rushed to the emergency room. Desmond suddenly got a sick feeling that if Alex had something inside him harmful enough to make him react like he had the _Worst Migraine Ever, of All Time_, then it would have even _worse_ effects on the regular world population. He managed to stand his ground until Alex straightened up again.

"Yeah… I," Alex glared up at the stretching buildings before him. He suddenly got the feeling that they were closing in on him. Crushing him. He tried to draw in a few breaths but his chest didn't rise. The sounds of cars, distant honking and the clatter of feet on pavement became just as dizzying as the voices drifting through his subconscious; the smell of gasoline and dirt and sweat was making him sick.

The lights disappeared, and in their wake were the pulsating, oozing sores of Hives; of blood and screaming civilians. Adrenaline and crumbling steel and the death that he couldn't escape. There he was, a _cancer_ infecting his home, choking his city until it finally choked back, letting him drown in the noise. He couldn't think; couldn't process; he couldn't, couldn't, _couldn't_…

"I can't take this anymore," he muttered, barely moving his lips.

"What?"

Alex didn't answer Desmond, and instead snapped his neck up and eyed the highest edifice he could find: The Bertelsmann building; 72 floors of class A office space rose out of West 45th street like a shoot of bamboo: High and sleek, it looked more comfortable to Alex than any other place in the world at the moment. "You better hang on," he warned Desmond, leaning over a bit, looking wild and deranged.

Desmond suddenly felt as if he was watching a prowling lion from the wrong side of the bars. He stumbled backwards again, arms going up. The Strand bag hit against his side absently. "Wait, Alex-"

Before Desmond could think of a reason to wait, there were two hands grappling at his waist, hauling him up, over his shoulder, holding his legs for balance.

_Balance_?

"Whoa. Whoa!" Desmond continued sputtering out whatever came to mind as he saw the ground move beneath him in a gray blur. Alex crossed the stretching Boulevard furiously, shaking the other man as he tried to either hold himself down or break free – he couldn't be sure which option was better – until he finally got to the base of the skyscraper and kicked off; leaving a hole in the asphalt and landing seven stories up the Bertelsmann; pushing against the steel panels, propelling the both of them upward into the sky.

Desmond saw the ground getting smaller and smaller, and as he was jostled around with each step he let out a blood wrenching scream – several heads turned up, a few more pointed, and by the time he was gently let down on the Bertelsmann's roof he actually managed to put away his fear long enough to be nauseous.

He put a hand tight against his mouth and let out a laughing, gasping sobbing – hell, he didn't even know what it was, but it wasn't a noise he thought he was capable of making. "Jesus fucking… God _damnit_, Alex." He banged his head against the three foot high barrier between the roof and very hard gravity. He didn't care; his head was already pounding with his life's story, punching images into his mind's eye with each flurried pulse of his temples. "What the fuck was that? What did you – _why_ did you," he swallowed quickly, trying to decide whether he was angry or eccentrically bemused by the whole thing. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't hear anything, but he kept talking, desperately trying to prove that he had made it up all those flights and his sprit wasn't stuck somewhere forty floors back. "You make it really hard to…" he moved his hands in a 'you know,' way. "To stay incognito when you start scaling up the fucking walls!"

"…Sensitive stomach?" Alex attempted, trying to create an innocent face.

"Alex," He stared up at the other man intently. He tried not to move. Moving made things blurry again. How thin was the air this many stories up? "Why'd you do that?" He watched as Alex stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his eyes staring at anything but him. "Alex, please. You need to – you can't just… get all _sullen_ if I mention a touchy subject. I'm sorry, but it's going to happen." He sat up a bit, feeling his head rattle. "Tell me, Alex, please." God, he was not invincible enough for this shit.

The other man stared out at the horizon, gladly observing how most of the nearby buildings weren't as tall as he was, now. "You're not going to like it…" he said, as an attempt to stave off the inevitable.

"I'm not going to run away this time, I promise…" He looked at the small door leading back into the actual building. It was padlocked. "I don't have much of a choice, now."

Alex swallowed.

"Back there, when I… started holding my head; I guess you could call it a memory flash," he said, trying to ease the both of them into conversation.

"You've had them before?"

"Not since the Outbreak – I'd get memories back, from my… host. They hurt, maybe from my brain processing the information."

"Did you get another one back there?"

"No… It was something I had experienced myself firsthand… In 2010, but I guess I just tried so hard to block it out that I really _did_ forget it. I haven't been in this part of the city since then. Until now, there was nothing to trigger a flash." Desmond quietly unattached the bag from his arm, leaving it on the rough ground beside him with a light ruffling.

"What was it about? The memory."

"This man named James Heller-"

"Dana told me about him."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "Did she say anything else?"

Desmond raised his eyes slightly, and then shook his head. "It was a while ago; all she said was that you infected him with the Blacklight virus and he tried to kill you… apparently, it didn't end too well for him."

"No. No it didn't." He glanced downwards again, eyeing the buildings. "There might have been a reason I was able… he…" Alex sighed, trying to figure out his words. "I did a lot of bad things."

"Dana did say that the human Alex Mer-"

"No, not him; _me_. _I_ did bad things. A lot of bad things. I _still_ do bad things, but now it's not because I want to. When I first woke up, I just wanted revenge; I needed to figure out who I was, who I knew… but I didn't know anything. So I – I _consumed_."

Desmond gave Alex an odd look. "Consume?"

"I learned it early on. I could just, _think_ _it_, and all of a sudden pieces of biomass would stretch out and," he made a swooping motion with his arms. "And, then they'd be _inside_ me; and I'd have their memories, and I could look like them and talk like them and walk like them and _be_ them, and nobody would know the difference – because they _were_ me. Or I was them." Desmond slowly began to rise upwards.

"You would… _eat_ them? People?" He asked, trying to sound neutral. He nearly jumped as Alex set his gaze on him again.

"I – I guess. That's probably the best way to say it. I got stronger, and I knew more; I consumed to get more targets so I knew who _else_ I could consume; it was this insane circle I followed for days, right up until I stopped Manhattan from getting nuked. Heller didn't do that, at least, not like I had. I think that's why I was able to kill him. He wasn't like me – and he was weaker because of it." He cast a gaze to the nothing on the roof. The sky got darker, the clouds were impenetrable. There was a hardness in Alex's throat and he was just waiting for Desmond to tell him – _demand_ that he be let back onto the street, and to never talk to him again. He couldn't be accepted by anyone, and as much as he tried to avoid this confrontation; well, there was no going back _now_.

"They weren't all enemies." He admitted, voice full to bursting with regret; sadness; mourning, Desmond could hear it all. "I didn't kill just Blackwatch or the army or scientists or people trying to kill me – I killed civilians, too, just because I got angry. And whenever I got a memory that pertained to me-"

"You'd get a memory flash." Desmond finished numbly. His arms hovered up from his sides, as if he was getting ready to move them. He could feel sweat creeping up on his neck, and there was a steady pulse in his ears, making his temples vibrate; he wondered if Alex could hear it. "Is… Is that why you had those bullet wounds that day?"

"The more I consume, the denser I am," Alex said simply, and Desmond cringed a bit. "I usually have enough biomass to heal myself… but I hadn't consumed since, well…"

"The Templars?"

"…Yes," Alex said at length. "It had been months since I had… and even when I was fighting Heller I never consumed _civilians_ – only Blackwatch – and they're gone now. Vanished."

"Did you get any flashes from them? The Templars?"

"…I found out where a few more of them were hiding,"

"And?" Alex looked off to the side, for a moment, his glass blue eyes looking cold and abnormal.

"They won't be bothering you anymore."

Finally Desmond stumbled all the way back to the ledge, sitting at the very edge of it, unsure which way to fall was worse for him. Alex watched, unsure if he should move towards the other man or not. "I can't believe… Jesus," he reached up to rub his forehead, hearing a rustle as his foot leaned against the plastic bag with the books Alex had gotten. The book Alex had given _him_. He looked at it for a moment, forgetting that he had even picked it up, dropped it, or even carried it with him out of the restaurant – which seemed like hours ago, now. "Dana did say that you needed to tell me something; that you had to be honest about who you are; _were_,"

"You just never thought it would be something like that," Alex offered. "I understand. I won't make you-"

"Oh shut _up_ about that – I am _not_ just going to fucking run away from you! I'm past that! I'm past thinking that you're some goddamn terrorist that wants to kill everything. Maybe you want me to think that, maybe the whole fucking world wants to believe that, but I can't. I just… can't." His knuckles turned white as they clenched at the stone seating. He looked down at Alex – Desmond's head tilted up in a way that everything in front of him also was beneath him now – and he was still standing across the rooftop. Still staring. Still trying to get a read on the man sitting in front of him.

"Why not?" Alex asked, and by the time Desmond had realized the words they were already lost in the accumulative noise arising from the bowels of New York below. God, don't think about that, he chastised, feeling his stomach curl up inside him.

"Because there's always a second opinion," he muttered, feeling another siege of vertigo coming on.

"Two sides to a story," Alex mentioned, and he shrugged, as if he didn't buy it.

"No, no, there are way more than just two sides. There's your side and their side and some neighbor's side and your friend's side and my side… and then there's what actually happened, but it's not like anyone gets to hear _that_ one. So we're kind of stuck, guessing what's right and what's... not."

"Well, what side are you on?"

"Probably yours," Desmond said, turning away.

"Probably?"

"I can be on theirs, if you think I'm wrong."

"No. It's just –"

"Just what?" Desmond snapped his head back and leveled a glare at the other man. "You said that you're different from Zeus. From the Gentek scientist – you're not evil. You're not trying to be the monster. Well? Is that true?"

"I _am_ different," Alex stated, rising up to Desmond's challenge. He said it confidently, and there was sincerity to that comment that couldn't be denied. There was even a hint of a pleading look; one that looked as human as anything. "I don't want to be a monster – a killer – a terrorist, anymore. When I saw what the human Mercer did, I was _disgusted_." He began to draw a few steps closer, his voice going lower. "Do you _know_ what he did? He made the Blacklight virus ten times _worse_. And he was ready to let the whole world get a taste of it because the bastards at Gentek weren't keeping him in the loop!"

He slowed his movements again, trying to calm himself. He didn't deserve to be forgiven for what he had done. There were some things that no one could ever forgive. But, God, he wished so badly that there was even a chance at redemption, somehow. At least in Desmond's eyes. To be a hero - at least for him. "I know that I've already screwed up your life before, but-"

"Save it." Desmond forced his gaze from Alex's and instead stared persistently at his shoes; partly in fear of another bout of vertigo, but also because he was trying to think.

Alex Mercer was a murderer. He had killed evil people, innocent people, and he consumed them; taking their memories, using their looks to get to even more victims.

He was, by nearly all convenient definitions of moral standards, a monster. Sociopath. Abomination.

And yet…

_Nothing is true. Everything is permitted_. He snorted and poked the bag with his foot; he never thought he'd be thinking of _that_ stupid phrase again in his life, but here he was. Alex had a way of dragging things like that back up. Opening up old wounds just to rub in some acid.

He'd be lying if he said it hadn't helped him in some way during the last few weeks.

And it had to be because he had met Alex years after the Outbreak – he had been slowly immersed into the man's true life: First believing that he was human, and then finding out that he was the Blacklight Virus, and now _this_. A part of his mind wanted to argue that it wasn't _Alex's_ fault: That those first few days weren't made up of sentient, rational choices in the first place. And sure, if Alex killed someone that had been pointing a gun at his head, he couldn't exactly say he was sorry, either. But there was still the lingering thought some of those killings had been caused by a short temper.

If he continued to befriend the Blacklight Virus, was anger going to become an issue?

Maybe the only reason that he could even _stand_ to be near Alex was because he hadn't tried to dwell on the details the other provided. He wasn't _there_ in 2009, he didn't see the carnage – he barely bothered when it was on the news, anyway. He was just sanitizing himself from what really went on during the Outbreak; he could be sitting next to a schizophrenic sociopath right now and he wouldn't even know.

Desmond cast a look to Alex's broad figure and realized that, try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to take that thought seriously. That was the problem of getting to know The Enemy; this was why you only saw abuse and martyrs in the South African riots nowadays. It was harder to call for one side's blood if both were equally bad – or good - right?

"Do you regret it? What you did?" he asked slowly. Alex didn't hesitate in his answer.

"Yes. I regret it. I regret it every time I close my eyes and see the faces that I consumed – and if I could sleep, I know that I would hear them, whispering in the back of my head," Desmond saw Alex's feet move and slowly get into his line of sight; walking closer. "You have no idea what it feels like, Desmond; to wish that you could just… erase what you've done. This is my _home_; I should have been protecting it from the beginning. Now I have to stop things like _me_ from attacking it."

Desmond twitched a bit as his name was flung out into the open air, but he supposed that they were safe enough here. He cast a glance to the other man, prudently. Alex looked broken, almost; with contrasting thoughts flying across his face without even a twitch of his mouth – it was all there, in his eyes, his mind. And Desmond felt sorry for him, this person, this _thing_, that wasn't exactly sure where it (_he_) fit into the world. Alex had more information tucked away in his mind than any human that had ever lived, and he was _still_ lost; _still_ not sure what to do with himself.

Maybe Dana was right; he needed someone to be there for him – to be a friend, to trust and respect and confide in. Someone to make him feel a little less – or a little more - than what he _thought_ he was. Desmond wasn't sure if he could do that – or if he would even _be_ in NYZ two weeks from now – but looking up at the pale face and steely blue eyes that attempted to hide everything, he decided that he could at least _try._

"I forgive you," Desmond whispered, shakily. "I can't forgive on the behalf of the people you've killed, or on behalf of the city or the marines or the rest of the world, but _I_ forgive you, Alex: If you want to do good things, I think you need people who believe that you're capable of that," he lightly nodded to himself, hearing an echoing sound of thunder, out in the distance. "Your sister believes in you. And so do I. We're on your side."

Alex had a look of relief on his face that slowly melted away that persistent tint of fear. "Thank you," he said finally, crouching on the perch Desmond had seated himself on. "I want to put myself to good use here, I do, really. And I just…" he sighed, collapsing his shoulders. "I don't know. I feel like I need _something_ else; an epiphany? I guess I'm just waiting for something to happen, something that will let me _let go_ of all of this," Desmond nodded. It was hard to forget. To start over. He'd been to every edge of the country and he had never been able to shake off his own memories.

"World War Three?" he said without a smile on his face. Alex turned towards him, his face looking brighter.

"Yeah, maybe."

"I know what you mean," Desmond offered gently. "Some things are just hard to put into words."

"Right." Alex put the soles of his shoes firmly on the rooftop, making his left foot come into contact with Desmond's; their knees and thighs touching a bit. "I have a few thoughts like that running in my head right now."

A crackle of lightning lit up the darkened atmosphere for two quick seconds, penetrating the pensive silence starting to develop. A roll of thunder came in soon after: The storm was starting. Cold blasts of wind ruffled their clothes, and pushed Alex's hood back, revealing soft black hair that might have been curls, if it wasn't cut so short.

"I was thinking about dyeing my hair," Desmond said suddenly. "-Just for unobtrusiveness's sake, you know?"

"Really,"

"I was thinking blonde," Desmond cautiously reached up to touch Alex's hair; it felt like feathers; he didn't even care that Alex had practically jumped in his seat. "But yours is nice, too." Alex stuttered back another thanks, a little baffled as Desmond slowly took his hand away; there was now this sense of excitement left within him; maybe he had gotten some weird side effect after the vertigo subsided, or maybe it was from the sudden rush the two men shared after the walls had fallen down: For Alex, at least, Desmond wasn't sure if there was anything he was hiding from him, and that thought made his stomach twist even more as he tried to recall another person who knew his pathetic life's story.

Nothing came up. Even back in his 'home' there wasn't anything as safe as this. As comforting as knowing that two people with fucked up histories could just _exist_ side by side like this.

Desmond's face held a small smile. Then he thought, 'fuck it,' and pretty soon there was a grin that rapidly tumbled into rolls of mirthful laughter that couldn't even be drowned out by the thunder that was fast approaching.

"I think we both needed this talk," he said reflectively, once he thought his ribs would crack. He hadn't noticed if Alex started chuckling along with him, or had simply looked on in slight horror, but he had this smirk on his face that made it seem that yes, he understood what Desmond was saying, even if he couldn't get the words right.

Finally, sick of bearing the weight, the sky ripped open, and everything became drenched in a Mid-summer storm.

"We should probably head home," Alex shouted, moving to get up. He offered out a hand to Desmond – actually _offering_ this time – and Desmond let himself be halfway lifted from his precariously high up, nerve wracking seat. Funny, for a while he had forgotten where they were.

He picked up his bag and Alex got back on the ledge, walking the perimeter, trying to find the quickest route home. "It'll be faster if we go my way," he said. "You'll be fine, as long as you don't open your eyes." Desmond threw his arms wide open.

"Hey, I trust you – you're not going to pull that Superman shit where you drop me and then catch me again like five seconds later, right?"

"Well, now that you mention it –"

"You're an ass." He glared up at Alex, and eventually the other stepped down, to his level; they were about eight inches apart. Another round of thunder and lightning came on, shaking the sky, making it flicker like a shaky light bulb.

"We should go that way," Alex said, pointing over his shoulder and nearly yelling through the hard smacks of rain; it was obvious that the both of them were already soaked through – Alex hadn't even bothered to put up his hood again.

"Yeah,"

The two couldn't bring themselves to move. For a while, they just stood, and stared, and let the rain hit them in an almost painful way. Soon the scents of the wet city rose up to them; dirt and oil and wet dog – anything but pleasant. But there was still the unspoken promise of life that came with the torrential downpours – the sprouting flowers and lush grass that would appear the next day; the small clovers and dandelions that were somehow still capable of growing up between the cracks of the sidewalks.

Desmond felt that impulse rising up again; that one that had made him touch Alex's head and laugh like a maniac a moment later – the one that gave him that warm feeling - chasing away the storm's chill for a few minutes, drowning out any other ideas he could have had; doubt and caution certainly among them.

Another white branch of lightning stretched across the sky, lighting up the earth like show lights, and Desmond was still staring.

Then the thunder came, and Desmond's eyes were closed, and his lips were pressed right up against Alex Mercer's; and it felt _good._

Neither pulled away.

**xxxx**

**A/N: This chapter did not want to be separated, so here, have a monster of a part.**

**In order of appearance: The Strand is an actual bookstore near Times Square. They do have such a basement. It's nice there; **_**Alamut**_**, as Assassin's Creed fans should know, is an actual novel that inspired many themes and story elements in the Assassin's Creed series (Such as the tagline, **_**'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.'); At Least in the City Someone will Hear me Scream**_** is a memoir by Wade Rouse, about a gay man in the 2000s trying to be a modern Henry David Thoreau; a passing comment is mentioned where Lucy throws out the name, Chaucer (Author of **_**The**__**Canterbury Tales**_**) and Desmond replies with a confused 'Who?' I'd imagine he reads since he doesn't seem to have modern entertainment systems at his disposal and his social life probably wasn't particularly riveting. He probably just looks at light hearted, humorous stuff though. His cougar joke was also an anecdote lifted from the **_**Read it and Weep Podcast**_**, in the Cougar Town episode; and lastly, wow, look, kissing in the rain. We haven't seen that before. A billion times.**


	11. Part XI: Dude in Distress

Both Alex and Desmond privately thought that there would be no point in time where this wouldn't feel awkward. After that kiss – that experimental, compulsory, no-other-way-to-express-myself _kiss_, Alex had left Desmond in his apartment, ducking out into the oddly colored sky to his own home.

Before leaving, Alex had turned back to him and stared, arm against the window frame, leg already swung out of view and dangling in the downpour. The gap was large enough to illuminate a flash of lightening. The window had been long since fixed since Alex's previous accident, and was now always left open a precious inch or two by Desmond in case the other was so inclined towards another surprise visit. Sometimes, as they stood staring at each other, drops would shake off their clothes, skin or hair, and Desmond had noticed during their shaky ride home that Alex had been… twitching. Almost. It was less of a muscle spasm and more like his entire _surface_ was barely holding back some convulsing _thing_ beneath its shell. They had established at some point that Alex wasn't a fan of water; this was probably a sign indicating as much.

Desmond had peeled himself off of Alex's back and silently watched Alex leave a minute later. They didn't say anything. In fact, they spent four days pointedly _not_ showing up at one another's doors - or windows, or saying anything to one another at all. It wasn't as if they had been joined at the hip _before_, but they both had locked themselves up under the pretense that they were giving the other man _space_.

By Friday they had both independently come to the conclusion that maybe what they did wasn't a good idea in the first place; Desmond shouldn't have started something, Alex shouldn't have kept it going, and they had both been set on the idea to wait for the other person to have the _balls_ to set up a meeting, where they might stutter out what they had mulled over for half the week.

Desmond had, at eleven a.m. Saturday morning, appeared to have found enough courage to call Dana Mercer's apartment from a payphone several blocks from his flat. He held the phone gingerly and about three inches from his own head.

Eventually someone picked up.

"_Yeah_?" That was a woman.

"Dana?" Desmond asked, putting up a polite front.

"_No, this is Jill; you need to talk to her?_" Her voice faded slightly, as she turned in her in preparation to shout to her friend.

"Actually, is Alex Mercer there?"

A second ticked by. "_Oh. Her brother? Yeah, hold on_," Desmond heard a faint shout, and presumably an '_I don't know_' from Jill when Alex asked who was calling, because a moment later she was back at the receiver. "_Who's this?_"

"Ah…" He gave himself a start, stopping himself before he said '_Desmond'_ "It's a bartender Alex knows, I just wanted to remind him about a tab he had…"

"_Okay_," He heard a faint murmuring, then a pause.

He could hear a slight crackling as the phone changed users. "_Hello_?" There was the deep, brooding voice Desmond could pick out anywhere.

"Hey," he answered weakly. "I wanted to… _talk_, about what happened Tuesday night." He let out a sigh, feeling the back of his neck grow hot.

"_At least you could actually _call," Alex admitted. "…_Where are you?_"

"Pay phone." Desmond absent mindedly looked up and saw a Toyota Camry go off, the car alarm blaring down the street incessantly. He cringed, hoping that it wouldn't last long. "Can we meet somewhere?"

"_Sure. Anywhere in mind?_"

"Um, breakfast?"

"_It's almost twelve._"

"That's breakfast time for me and every other bachelor in Manhattan, alright?" he smiled into the receiver, bringing the phone a bit closer to himself. "I was going to try and have a serious conversation, but now I get the feeling that we're just going to screw around over a plate of waffles or something."

"_…Yeah, you _would_ say something like that_."

"Do you have an address or what?"

Alex adopted an air of nonchalance. "_Yeah sure…_" there was a pause, and more muffled words. "_Okay, I got a place; at Madison and Eighty-first there's this little place on the corner… It's all orange. You can't miss it. At least, that's what Dana said_," he added as an afterthought, trying to preserve some form of dignity that was lost by going to a vibrant colored diner. Desmond ignored it.

"Fine. I'll see you in fifteen minutes, then."

**xxxx**

Alex – or Dana, or _whoever_ – was right; the place was hard to miss. The café was advertised by the gently ruffling banner draped across two sides of its spot on the corner, as well as the number of dainty looking chairs and tables spread out not only inside the building but also tumbling out partway into the sidewalk, doors slid open as far as possible so that all patrons could enjoy the seventy degree weather. Desmond wormed his way through the black chairs and glass tables until he was inside. The 'kitchen' itself was just the farthest third of the restaurant, separated by a waist high wooden wall and the numerous display cases of fruits, pastries, and a cash register. The back wall held the griddles and refrigerators; one man darting quickly back and forth between them.

Desmond managed to squeeze himself between tables and Suits enjoying their power-lunch coffees. A woman came to give him a laminated sheet of paper that could hardly lay flat without its corners stretching off the edge of the tabletop. He ordered some freshly squeezed orange juice that ended up being too natural for his tastes, and he politely fended off any further attempts at orders by saying that he was waiting for someone.

He felt his stomach rumble hungrily as Alex walked in. He had on a red shirt, which didn't really stand out due to the fact that he had covered virtually every inch of it with his iconic leather jacket.

It was almost comical, Desmond thought, watching as Alex carefully attempted to sit down, as if he might break the chair if he so much as coughed the wrong way. Though, he had seen what Alex could do to pavement…

Any other thought that his mind attempted to go on was forced to a stop when Alex delicately used his finger tips to pick up the cup of orange juice, nestled between Desmond's two folded arms. He chugged it down, licking his lips when he finished, and let out a large breath. "Sorry I'm late," he prefaced. "Dana decided to bring her friends over and… well, I've been to military questioning sessions that weren't as brutal as that."

"We're they asking about us?" Desmond felt his eyes widen slightly as he thought about what the word '_us'_ might have pertained to.

Well, it was time to figure that out, wasn't it? "Look," he cut in again before Alex could manage a response. "I know that whole –" The words played on his tongue for a few seconds, "-us kissing was… weird. We agree on that?"

Alex gave a slight nod.

"Like, the second we think we're good, somebody has to go and fuck it up, right?" The other man had a slightly guilty look that was beginning to form. "-I mean it's not really anyone's fault," Desmond said quickly. "It's just hard, you know?" he huffed, feeling the summer heat grow unpleasant around him.

"I guess we need to figure a few things out," Alex said quietly.

"Yeah, we do." He eyed the waitress who had made a beeline towards them. "I guess we can do it over breakfast. If it gets awkward we can just stare at the syrup."

Desmond asked for a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs, Alex just requested black coffee. They were left to themselves again, somehow feeling isolated amid the loud streets and crowded diner.

"So, are we going to _try_ and work something out?" Alex asked, staring at the other man. Desmond idly wished that he had a piece of silverware available, just so he could have _something_ to focus on besides Alex's gaze.

"Yes, we are." He heard a small, startled hiss as Alex let out his breath, his lips barely open. "I like you Alex. Really, I do." Desmond moved his palm off his lap and settled it on one of Alex's outstretched hands. It was meant to be a friendly gesture; a reassurance that things would fall in to place and just figure themselves _out_, as things tended to. But instead he just felt the hotness of Alex's fingers; the twitch of muscle and tautness of skin, and he may have just lulled out of reality for a moment as he stared. For just a moment, of course. He slid his hand away and tried to focus again.

"And, I guess, sometimes I don't really know how _much_ I like you."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Sure,"

"Sometimes, I think I get that feeling too."

Desmond gave him a long stare. "…What do you mean?" It was a dumb question, but his ears still gave a little spike of attentiveness right when Alex drew in a breath to speak.

"I love being with you. Just… here, like this." he made a gesture to the restaurant. "And – like you said, it's hard to say if you're my friend or something else, and it isn't like I have a great point of reference to work with, here." Desmond nodded in agreement to that. "But, I get this sensation with you – different than when I'm with Dana, or some stranger. It's like," he swallowed, drumming his fingers and trying to think of where he was going at this point in his little monologue. "It's like with you, I forget about the Outbreak, and the Blacklight Virus – I forget who I am. You… with you, it's like I'm human, like I always _was_ human."

Desmond tilted his head, trying to give himself an air of understanding, even if he couldn't totally appreciate Alex's train of thought. "Do you _always_ think of yourself as different than other people?"

"Yes; a lot, at least – too much. I look around and I think about how easily all these people can just… die. How I might have almost _killed_ them during the Outbreak; how they might have lost friends and relatives because of me. And it's haunting; worse than any hell anyone can imagine. And then I'm talking to you over breakfast like we're just two normal people that aren't on some bounty list out there and it's like my mind takes a vacation." There was a lull as the waitress came back with rolled up napkins and a tray of food. Desmond wasted no time in cutting up his pancakes, trying to look at his plate and Alex at the same time.

"It sounds like you were going crazy before you met me," he said as Alex picked up his mug.

"I'm not going to say that I can't live without you," he reasoned. "It's just… a lot more pleasant to have someone sympathetic around – healing."

"_That's_ a romantic way of putting it," Desmond drawled, getting a few bits of sweet bread into his mouth before Alex defaulted back to his hard stare. He swallowed thickly and bit the inside of his cheek; it didn't matter how hungry he was, they weren't done talking yet.

"It's more than that, you know – I _do_ genuinely like talking to you. You're a fascinating person, to me. You've done a lot in a few years. Dana talks about you like you're her _other_ brother – and I'm pretty sure you're the only one who can stand this rudimentary sense of humor I've picked up."

"Sure it's a sense of '_humor'_ and not say, a penchant for cynical phrases? 'Cause I mean, that's what I do too, I'm pretty sure." He offered a smile that turned into a grin as he saw Alex's face ease into a content expression. "But I guess that sympathizer thing is true for the both of us; you're the only one who knows who I am – my name and everything else that comes with it. You saved my ass in the alley, too, even if the circumstances weren't… _ideal_." He paused, hearing the screeching of tires as an unseen, probably heavy duty vehicle skidded to a hault somewhere outside. A few more mechanical squeals followed, plus the slams of car doors soon after.

"You've got a heart, Alex." He decided to humor his thoughts and spat out; "You have a heart and a nice face, and I guess, if you want, we can see where the whole 'relationship upgrade' goes. I mean, if one experimental kiss didn't scare the both of us off forever, then what's a few dat-"

"_FREEZE_! _NYPD_!" Four men in black uniforms brandished their guns at the stunned patrons inside. Orders were barked at them in a voice that sounded too commanding to appear in real life, and slowly people started dropping to the floor in a nervous stream of pushed out chairs and raised hands.

Desmond didn't move – it was impossible since time had obviously stopped moving, too, right? He wasn't sure how the people around him could just fall to the floor, but _he_ couldn't even _blink_; couldn't even feel the sweat on his neck and under his arms – everything was lost to him for some precious seconds.

…And then everything snapped back into focus and Desmond nearly fell to the floor as he tried to turn around and get a good look at one of the men slowly stomping his way towards him.

The officer looked about seven feet tall and had the muscle mass of someone who bench pressed SUVs for a living. At least from Desmond's perspective, which had been more or less shot from fear. Realizing that any escape route he had was blocked off by chairs, tables, or the man in front of him, Desmond had silently resigned himself to being royally screwed.

"Desmond Miles?" The suited man asked, tilting his head down to stare at the man sitting before him. Most of his face was composed of the bluish, reflective glasses most cops wore – but despite the uniforms and their apparent battle cry, Desmond was hard pressed to believe that these guys were cops.

Good cops, at least.

"Who?" he asked, determined to remain optimistic; hopeful that these guys were as stupid as they were scary.

He whipped his head to the side as the officer reached down to his face – instead of a punch to the mouth, however, he was picked up by the scruff of his collar, feeling very much like a rag doll or an extremely terrified puppy. He saw his horrified reflection stare back at him through the shades his captor was wearing, and he was more or less forced to watch himself dangle precariously by the other man's hand. He quickly grabbed the officer's clenched fist to prevent himself from falling, being thrown, or just straight out strangled.

"Don't give me that shit, Miles – we _have_ you!" Desmond could see the three other men shift and adopt satisfied grins.

"I don't- what's my charge? Aren't you supposed to read me my Miranda rights? Or get a warrant? Or _something_?" he felt himself trying not shriek; desperately searching for purchase on the ground. The man pointedly lifted Desmond a little higher.

"Sure – it's in the car. We'll tell you about your right to remain silent and get a lawyer on the way to the station."

_Unless you stop and shoot me out back,_ Desmond thought. If he had been caught in Central Park he could have hid in a tree, or dash off into the woods, but here it was as if they were moving him from one cage to another. They picked a great time to show up…

A chill ran up his spine, as he tried to wrench his gaze from the officer to Alex, still sitting behind him. He wanted to call out, to ask for help, to know that Alex hadn't just _called_ the Templars on his way to the restaurant – to know that Alex hadn't betrayed him.

Desmond realized that the uniformed man was moving backwards slightly, amid the frightened patrons crouching like birds on electrical wires – they wouldn't do anything; the streets were brutal war zones now; even if they felt bad for him, even if he wasn't some crime boss like the police were treating him as, they weren't about to protest against four men with enough equipment on them to power a mountain guerilla, now were they? When they were out on the sidewalk there was enough room for the man to turn around, and then he saw Alex, staring at him with that stony, unreadable face – the one he saw when he had first saw him in the bar and he had thought the man was just having a bad day; when he wasn't anything more than a paying customer. Later he found out that was how he looked to everyone he didn't know – to strangers and enemies alike.

Was Desmond really just another random _person_ to him?

_Alex…Alex!_ He could feel himself trying to shout the words; he struggled against the monstrous statue of a man. He was Clenching his eyes and wringing his fists, trying to get loose – trying to get more than just gasps of air. He could do something – he could do _something_! Because if he didn't -

"Go 'head. Just keep squirming like that." Desmond felt the butt of a gun sticking him in the back. Glancing to the side he could see two squad cars pulled on either side of a conspicuous black van. The Templars really _had_ found him.

It was over.

He was almost tempted to just keep on shifting and fighting until he ended up six feet under, just to spite the bastards capturing him.

"Go to hell," he retorted at the man holding him. "Go to _fucking_ hell, and _rot_ there you _stupid_ son of a _bitch_." He swung himself backwards a few precious inches and slammed his foot into the other man's shin as hard as he could.

Behind him, a shotgun was cocked, right next to his ear. The butt of another gun jabbed into his back like a bayonet. Once, then twice, then a few more for good measure until he thought one of his ribs had just gotten cracked and he let out a harsh yell, digging into his captor's hands with his nails.

From inside the restaurant, there was a huge crash and clattering. The officer swung his body ninety degrees, catching Desmond's open jacket on the gun and twisting until it poked a hole and stretched until it was only a long, horizontal rip. Desmond barely heard the noise as he saw Alex Mercer – his confidant, his friend, his… possible _boyfriend_, walking towards the group with long, aggravated steps.

Slowly mist began to form around his arms.

Except, no, it wasn't even mist. It was as if his jacket had risen up, and turned into tendrils – and from the shoulder down he watched as Alex's arms morphed into a twisting black and red mass for a half of a second. A hissing, popping, _crackling_ sound was heard. This foreign whispering that Desmond couldn't so much describe as just experience firsthand.

And even _then_ he felt a bit lost.

The leather jacket had morphed into organic looking armor – like reptile scales or a rhino's hide. The cloth and his arm had become one thing. And there, instead of hands, were two monstrous hooked blades. Sharp and very, _very_ convincing for anyone who was on the fence about listening to a thirty year old _apparent_ no-body.

"What the fuck?" he heard one of the uniforms behind him say.

Alex stretched out one of his lethal limbs. "I'd appreciate it if you would give that man to me, now."

"You and what army?" Desmond's captor shakily spat out; his anxiety turning his rebuffs into mere playground level taunts.

And now it was as if Alex grew – shrinking the Templars as he stepped towards them – the blades morphed once more into even longer and brutal edges, stretching to about the length of a man's torso. They looked like they could cut steel in half as easy as tissue paper.

And Alex looked like he wasn't going to hesitate to do that to the four cowering men in front of him.

"I'm Alex Mercer," he said, and he spoke with the confidence of a man who owned the entire world, and Desmond could only watch in excited awe as he realized Alex was doing this to save _him_. "And _look_ at me. I _am_ my own army!"

Charging forward, he slammed the man holding Desmond sharply to the right, letting one arm change back to normal so he could wrench Desmond away and catapult the man a hundred yards down the street like a pebble. There was a car alarm going off in the distance and a chorus of surprised honks; the Templar had found his landing. Alex shifted focus back to the three remaining men for a moment before eyeing a building right across the street.

The three were cut down like trees as Alex ran his blade into them, no longer focusing on them as targets, but rather gaining precious speed to propel Desmond and himself up a building's wall once again.

Desmond was left dangling under Alex's arm, too relieved to be away from his attackers to remind himself that he needed to be scared of heights, as well.

At least until he heard a gunshot go off and imbed itself just two feet to the left of his head.

"Damn it," he heard Alex say, and then Desmond felt himself shake even _more_ as Alex forced himself to scale the twenty-story building even faster than he had been; making random twists and turns to miss the dozen or so pots shots that the three decidedly _not_ _dead_ goons below were trying to place on the pair.

Alex jumped onto the rooftop and allowed his other arm to change back. He gently let go of Desmond and watched as he jumped up like a coiled spring and went back to grasping Alex's arm until the other man could feel each individual digit pressing into him, harder than the three bullets that landed into his back during their ascent. "Shit." Desmond said after a moment of heavy breathing. "Shit, shit _shit_ – they found me! I can't believe that they actually… I… they almost took me away." He sunk down onto the ground, holding his head in silence.

Alex eyed the rooftop access and decided that the sooner he could get Desmond to a safe place, the better. He knelt down. "Are you okay?"

"Does it _look_ like I'm okay? They nearly dragged me off to – I don't know – imminent _death_, I can tell you that much! There was a _reason_ my family was in the middle of fucking _nowhere_!" He let out a sigh. "I need to get out of the city."

"What?"

"Washington," Desmond said suddenly, eyes growing wide, "– I can get a bus to Washington tonight, and I'll be there in four days tops… I know they have plenty of boardwalks and bars on the shore, so getting another job won't be too-"

"_Desmond_!" Alex grabbed the other man's shoulders. "Relax. You're not leaving New York; I'm going to help you,"

"What can _you_ do?" he whispered. He turned to watch the edge of the roof as if the uniformed men would be clamoring up that way at any moment.

There was a rough knocking sound at the door that made the both of them jump. The door was bolted, but Alex guessed it wouldn't be long before whatever was on the other side would manage to get _out_.

"I can take you away from here, for starters," he said. And Desmond looked out at the city, then back at Alex, who was half standing and holding an offering hand out to him. Desmond took a rickety breath and slowly stood up.

"I trust you, right?" He whispered, attaching himself onto Alex's back like a life-dependent piggy back ride. "Let's go." Desmond urged, settling his neck next to Alex's face as the other man stood, easing himself into a jog towards the edge of the building's roof.

**xxxx**

It hadn't occurred to Alex that his previous self – the incarnation titled Dr. Alex J. Mercer - was making ridiculous amounts of money that he now had access to until Dana gingerly pointed out that he had his own apartment; one that he didn't even bother _using_, preferring instead to just crash on his sister's couch for the few hours needed to consciously relax and recharge himself. "Most people don't have a fucking spare _house_ lying around," she had said to him once.

It just seemed that you were going to need a place to stay, Alex figured. And besides, he _did_ need a place to get mail shipped to, and a formal place of residence to give to the government after The Outbreak. He abandoned the upper East-side high rise he had lived in as the Gentek scientist for the obvious reasons of him being technically deceased and, of course, the building _had_ been rather damaged after his whole floor had gotten blown up anyway. Now he had some small place a few streets south of Dana's; around a ten minute walk, or one minute spree of serious jumps, parkour, and flying.

And that was the place Alex chose to let Desmond uneasily slide off of his back and collapse onto a catalogue ordered couch, still covered in plastic from whenever Dana had ordered it.

"Just move in?" Desmond asked wearily.

"Just decided to start living here," Alex countered, walking over to the off-white sofa. Desmond stared at the ceiling with his head resting on the armrest of the couch. It looked like he was in an open-eyed coma. He didn't even flinch when Alex took a seat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Finally he whispered; "You're living here?"

" It _would_ be easier to protect you if you stayed with me… if you didn't want to leave, at least."

"…I was going to try to convince you that I should," Desmond said quietly, and then he leaned forward again with what looked like a great amount of effort. As his face came closer, he no longer looked like the twenty-five year old he was: He looked tired, and drained, and for a moment Alex thought of Cross – long dead – but without any of the fight the older man actually _had_ in him; just a shell. "I got here in late December, so I've been here about seven, eight months, and I've had to move once, and I've been attacked twice." He got a distant look in his eyes. "They're getting better at finding me, Alex. Pretty soon, a group of Templars are going to sniff me out no matter where I go: The Himalayans, Antarctica, Mexico, the Philippines, _Manchuria_ – I don't even know _where_ the hell Manchuria _is_, but-" he slapped his hands to his face and let out a deep growl, low and long. He was frustrated and scared and Alex was left scrambling for ideas of how to make things better.

Alex's human experience was built on rather unstable relationships, so it was more informative to say that his _inexperience_ made him want to run away whenever someone was in a type of danger that couldn't be punched out and knocked around. And right now Desmond's sense of hopeless dread made him uneasy.

"You _could_ stay here," he offered again, hoping that Desmond would _look_ at him when he answered. And as he took his hands away Alex hoped even more desperately that the man hadn't been crying – because _then_ what the hell was he supposed to do?

"_What_?" Desmond asked. His face was red from pressing his hands to his cheeks. It was as if he had been in hysterics minus the tears, and had just regained a wobbly foot hold on conversation again.

"You can stay in my apartment – and I could stay with you," he said, pointedly _not_ dwelling on the impulsiveness of his actions. "That way I can make sure that no one finds you – until you figure out what you want to do, at least."

"You'd let me… just…"

"If I can afford to just have an apartment, then a roommate wouldn't hurt, right?" Desmond let out a breath and looked around at the white walls and dust and empty furniture boxes.

"That's – that's really nice of you, Alex." Desmond pretended to be enthralled by the dark wood flooring so he wouldn't have to look back at the other man again. He felt like a refugee right now; even more than when he had come to the conclusion that as far as he was concerned, his entire family was dead; or those nights where he had awoken at two in the morning in a random hotel and the only belongings he had would have to be abandoned because of that old familiar feeling he had gotten – the one telling him that something bad was just on the horizon; the one that usually ended up being right.

In a city of thirty million, he had the feeling that he really _was_ alone.

He felt Alex's fingers clench assuringly on his shoulder a moment later, and he nearly burst into tears – thinking about what had happened _(what had almost happened_) had Alex not been there; if Alex hadn't been a good person. He tried to calm himself enough that he would be able to turn around and thank his friend properly, but he couldn't, he really couldn't.

His throat kept on closing up on him every time he tried to verbalize something more complicated than a dry sob or a sigh. At some point Alex had decided to gently ask if Desmond wanted to lie down.

Desmond nodded and let himself be led into a dark bedroom. There was the bed frame and a mattress – and some slips folded up on a chair in the corner of the room. He unzipped his jacket, realizing for the first time that it had been torn beyond any chance of repair. Trying not to think about it, he numbly began folding the arms and the hood in a specific pattern – one he had done many times before. The zipper wouldn't make a mark on his face and his neck wouldn't hurt like hell if he actually managed to nod off. In the darkness, he saw Alex's shadow watching him as he sat on the bed and stared up.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Alex," Desmond said, lying down and putting his arms to his sides. Alex looked like he wanted to stay with him, say something more, but instead he unsteadily shuffled towards the aperture.

"Do you want me to wait outside for you?" he asked, already a few inches in the living room.

"I – sure. That'd be great Alex. Thank-you. Really. For everything."

The door softly shut and Desmond was left to stare blankly at the ceiling, hearing his heart thumping against his temples as he decided what to do next.

**xxxx**

**A/N: The aforementioned café was drawn from one I visit whenever I'm in Manhattan around breakfast-time, since it's the cheapest, decent meal you will ever find on the East Side of Central Park. The official name of that place is the **_**Nectar Café**_**, though it resembles most little baristas and coffee shops around New York anyway, so there's not much point in saying I was inspired by this one **_**especially**_** so. But for what it's worth, it has pretty good egg sandwiches.**


	12. Part XII: Kiss and Make Out

"You think that letting him stay here is a _good_ _idea_, Alex?" Dana hissed at him from her spot on the couch. Doubtful eyes glared up at him from under her bangs.

"It's the best alternative _I_ can think of," he said lowly, not liking where their conversation was going. _Had_ been going for the past half hour. After Alex had left Desmond alone in his room, he had a rush of thoughts that left him in severe need of someone to talk to. And in the past, that usually meant his sister. He had called Dana, telling her only enough so that she would venture over to his apartment.

"_Wait, wait_," she had said hurriedly over the phone. "_Where's your apartment again?_" Alex could only remember the vague directions. "_I don't have a key_," she responded slowly – Alex guessed that she had been writing the address down. He also realized that _he_ didn't have a key, either. He didn't need one, what with the window, but he got the impression that making the apartment more hospitable than, say, a room in a sanatorium was going to take some work.

"He is being _hunted_, Alex," she said. Alex gave her a rigid look.

"He's going to be tracked down no matter where he goes, though. At least if he's here I'd be able to protect him."

"You can't be standing over his shoulder twenty-four seven, Alex. You know that. And what is he going to do all day? Just sit around and watch TV for the rest of his life?"

"We'd be there for him," Alex said. "You told me before – he's like your _other_ brother."

"He needs more than two people to talk to! He needs friends, a job, _a life_!"

"Not much of one," Alex muttered, trying not to feel culpable as the words came out of his mouth. "I mean, it's not like he was trying to integrate himself wherever he was. It's not like he could actually _keep_ those friends after he left."

Dana pursed her lips. "It's a bad idea. Those guys are probably reporting back to their boss or some shit and telling him that Alex Mercer carted him off; where do you think they're going to look first, huh?" she gestured to the open space. "Here! Right. Fucking. _Here_!"

"_Shh_!" Alex cast a worried glance to the bedroom door. Dana shifted on the couch, watching her brother.

"Is he in there?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yeah." He slowly turned back to face his sister. "He can probably hear us anyway – it's not like he'll be falling asleep soon." His shoulders fell. "I'm just trying to help him," he offered, at a loss for any other explanation. Dana gave him a long look.

"Help him or help _you_?" she said at last.

"What?"

"You like Desmond a lot, Alex. And that's fine - but you know the type of life he has. He can't stay here forever, no matter how much you want him to."

Alex wanted to argue that he was doing everything for Desmond's sake, but then, as he thought about it, there was that piece of uncertainty that hinted that he wasn't sure at all. Was letting Desmond go the better way to protect him? His mind felt foggy, and he didn't know if he could come up with an answer – especially one he would like.

Finally, he said; "I'll let him go if he wants to – it's all up to him, anyway. I won't make him stay."

"But you _hope_ he does," she said, watching her brother cast another long look at the closed door. "You want him to stay with you."

"Yes," Alex admitted.

"Do you love him?" Alex felt a hard shock in his stomach and hesitated, casting a mildly suspicious look at his sister. What sort of question was _that_? Of course, being with Desmond was different than being with anybody else in the world. It was freeing; uplifting. And that morning, when Desmond had touched his hand and offered a romantic relationship, he had felt relieved that he was forgiven, and then exhilarated at the prospect of becoming even more significant in the other man's life. But he didn't know if that was _love_ – he wasn't sure _what_ constituted love. He couldn't even come close to a satisfactory definition, and then his sister had just asked him if that was how he felt about Desmond. Could she tell? Could _anyone_ tell? Was there some sort of pheromone that he gave off that human beings could somehow _sense_?

"…I don't know." he said at length, feeling his throat tighten and his face warming; love was supposed to be a sensitive topic, if culture taught him anything about that emotion. But he never figured that _he_ would be affected by it.

_Another way Desmond made him feel human_, he thought, turning back to his sister. "And you're okay with it? Liking Desmond, I mean." There were still stigmas about same sex relationships – one of those little pieces of societal norms he somehow collected. Biologically, that made sense, he supposed – but then he reminded himself that technically he wasn't human and didn't even _have_ a gender, anyway, (But Alex Mercer was his identity more than anyone else's; aesthetic wise, at least); not being of the same species was probably more offensive than just looking male anyway. All of that seemed irrelevant to Dana, however; she was just staring at Alex as if addressing some sort of violation in the law of physics; such as a hovering coffee table, or a lack of gravity outside.

"Do you think I give a fuck?" she asked. Her voice was gentle, despite the content of her sentence. "Like whoever you want – it's just dumb luck you like the one guy who is actively wanted for… something neither of you will fucking _tell_ me." Alex shrugged helplessly – Desmond didn't want to tell _anyone_, even Dana.

Trying to change the subject, he glanced up from where he was standing, gazing at the east wall. There was a window there, expectantly, though there was also an opening about the size of a door to the right, aligned with the couch in the middle of the room. It had glass in it, once. Alex quickly replaced the pane with heavy curtains to keep out the elements, and he took out most of the steel bars that had offered protection for those dumb enough to smash themselves into the glass – from the twentieth floor. There wasn't much risk of burglary via a window, at least. And it was as good an entrance as any, by Alex's standards, at least; and he had tumbled through it with Desmond on his back only a little while ago.

The tawny colored fabric of curtains lay next to the window, pushed aside from their hasty entrance. That's where Alex focused his attention when he supplied; "If they _do_ think that I'm protecting Desmond, then what makes you so sure that they'll come after _him_?"

"Care to elaborate?"  
>"Well," he looked down at his hands, which were resting against his sides for the time being. He squeezed them a few times in an absent minded way; flexing the fingers and feeling the taut skin of his knuckles and the rougher bits of his palm as he talked: "I have a reputation. One that says I can kill anybody who comes in here and tries to take him away. So, maybe they won't <em>want<em> to come here. Maybe they'll just decide to cut their losses and look for someone else they want; maybe they'll think that he's already out of the city by now."

Dana bobbed her head once, meaning that she was taking that thought into consideration. "It's possible, I guess. Desmond's been pretty good at staying under the radar… well, till now, at least."

"You could always forge some identity papers for him, too." Alex offered.

"That's a good point: A passport, a birth certificate, hell, even a Visa or MasterCard or something…" her eyes lit up. "_Or_ a Visa,"

Alex gave her a look, wondering why she was repeating herself.

"A travelling visa," she explained, slowly letting her movements get more involved and her face become more expressed as she began to think aloud. "We could say that he's come here from another country – Romania or Nigeria or somewhere that doesn't make a big deal of paper work…" she paused, furrowing her brows. "And we can give him a disguise, too; we can dye his hair and give him glasses or contacts and some new clothes and a hat and _Bam_! He's fucking unrecognizable _and_ safe." She smiled, leaning back into the squeaky cushions of the couch, practically glowing as she reflected on her idea.

"Do you think that'll work?" Alex asked, still awed by how quickly her sister had just thought up a scheme like that from his one suggestion; she was a lot smarter than he realized, sometimes.

"As well as any idea can work," she said. "Short of putting him in a Witness Protection Program in the middle of the fucking Sierra, I'd say this is about as good as we can do right now." She gave him a pointed look. "If and _only_ if he actually agrees with it."

"So it's okay with you?" He watched hopefully as Dana stood up.

"I want to help Desmond as much as you do," she said, mildly wishing that Alex had just found a gang of beer buddies that would just take him out to a game once in a while, versus a man on the run who he would try to spend as much time as possible with. But she watched her brother become so happy whenever he was talking to Desmond – even back in the winter, when she had found him occupied in watching the younger man move about the bar. And everyone, even Alex, deserved a great happiness like that at least _once_ in their lives. "I just have different ideas than you about what's a good way to help him. But you're my brother, and I said I would help you - and I _stick_ to my priorities; whether or not there's a better choice."

If Alex wanted to stay with Desmond, all she could do was attempt to keep the both of them out of harm's way.

She headed for the door. "Jill and Theresa aren't going to wait all goddamn day for me. If you need me, just give me a call." She turned back. "Let me know what Desmond thinks about this later, alright?"

He offered up a flimsy smile, deluded and bogged down with overflowing thoughts. "Alright. Thank - you, Dana." He didn't move until the door closed softly in front of him – _now_ of all times his sister attempts to be discreet?

He was still holding on to the feeling of uncertainty he had – about Desmond and how his feelings went regarding him. He thought, as he made a few circles around the room, inspecting this or that out of a need to expend some energy, that love was a very physical thing. Like, red cheeks and jittery thoughts and not being able to concentrate about anything except the target of one's affection. But Alex hadn't really felt like that. He hadn't nearly fallen off a rooftop thinking about what Desmond's hair smelt like, he hadn't ever accidentally brushed against the man's hand and was left a stuttering wreck, either.

For all he knew, Desmond held himself together just as well.

But there was still this borderline dependent nature he felt when he was around the younger man; an innocent addiction, maybe. A drug with no known ill side affects; or something along those lines. Desmond was a good distraction and a great friend – so much so that he wished to see him more, and be with him more, until it got to the point where he could feel metaphorically naked in front of him and probably not fear for himself or acknowledge any type of shame. With Desmond he just _was_, and could only hope to be.

And at some point perhaps this had made him fall in love with him. Unless he really wasn't yet. But now, if he made himself think on it, lovers and friends – at least the type of friend he was – didn't seem to overlap much except in the physical department. He briefly wondered about that, about how it would be like to kiss Desmond, and be kissed _by_ Desmond, and have that sort of thing happen all the time - and then he could feel an almost instant wind of private embarrassment: The man could be gone in the hour, and then he'd be kicking himself for daydreaming.

At that resignation, Alex forgot the whimsical musings of relationships and let his spine get cold. He cast a frightful look at the oven's clock as if it was a countdown timer, but all he saw was a series of glowing green numbers reading _1:43_ – how long had he been pacing?

He decided that he could be allowed to intrude on Desmond now, if only because he felt impatient and privately thought that it wasn't like a person like Desmond was going to be relaxing _anyway_. He strode up to the room and promptly decided to forgo the whole knocking process – because that would leave the ability for Desmond to not answer or claim that he wanted to be alone, and Alex knew that his selfish attitude couldn't bear that.

Walking inside he found Desmond on his stomach – a hand experimentally touching the exposed skin of his back.

"Umm…" Any words Alex Mercer had tried to form had apparently retreated back into his vocal cords. "Desmond?"

The man raised his head to look at the figure at the doorway. "One of those guys kind of… fucked up my back. I think he left a mark," his hand continued shifting up in down his spinal column. "Well, actually, maybe a few marks. I thought I broke something, but I'm pretty sure I was just over reacting."

Alex walked forward and wished there was an actual lamp plugged in somewhere – there were no windows in the bedroom, only a few strips of light flowing in from the main room, resting on the mattress right by Desmond's head. He saw that at some point Desmond had taken the spare sheets and laid them under himself, for warmth or comfort or just a lack of things to do. He sat himself on the edge and looked at the dark skin of Desmond's back, trying to see the abrasions. There were five pock marks that looked like tiny, swollen hills; all in a cluster above the kidney on the right of his spine. Five purpling, raised bumps from the butt of a very large gun, plus a faint red line; looking more like a stray stretch of a correcting pen than an injury. Nothing looked explicitly serious, but he pressed lightly on one of the swollen spots, anyway. "Does that hurt?"

"Yes," Desmond said with mild impatience. "They hurt – is there a mark?"

"Five of them. Bruises I think. The skin didn't break though. Is there anything else that hurts?"

"The lingering feeling of exhaustion combined with the loss of dignity from being manhandled?" he asked aloud, unwilling to move to pull his shirt back down. "I feel like I can sleep for a solid _week_."

"That wouldn't be such a bad idea," Alex said evenly.

"Dana was here," he said, abruptly changing the topic. "What were you talking about?"

"You couldn't _hear_ her?"

"Only a bit. Enough to know it was about me, and that she left a while ago." From where he smooshed his face into the pillow, he gave Alex a worried glance. "You guys didn't have an argument, did you?"

"Only a little one – it's resolved now. And we're related; we've probably had worse things to say to one another when it came to who was going to the laundry." Desmond managed to smile a little bit, and Alex decided to answer his question. "We both agreed that we'd like it if you stayed here – and that if you do, Dana will be able to give you fake papers and set you up as a long term visitor from another country that isn't good at bookkeeping; it'll be harder for them to trace you. And you can get a good disguise, too; dye your hair, a different eye color…" Desmond didn't react to what Alex had said, so he finished up quickly, "- And we could both live here – I'll do my best to protect you… unless you _do_ think it's better to leave."

"And then?"

"And then I won't stop you." He supplied, his shoulders sagging a bit at that.

"You'd miss me, though,"

"Of course I would."

Desmond turned himself around – now his stomach was on display. Alex idly watched the dark skin and slight muscle protruding there, since it made him less anxious than Desmond's rather sad and puffy looking face. The shirt was smoothed down and he spoke up again. "I guess you should know that I already decided what I wanted to do; even before you came in here to explain it to me."

"…Really?" there wasn't much tension in Alex's voice; he knew what the answer was going to be now; he could just hope the words wouldn't be too painful when they sunk in –

"I decided that if I would do anything for _you_, you would probably feel the same way, and so you would already have a plan to keep me in Manhattan. And, I mean, it's better to have a friend in enemy territory than _none_ in a new place, right?" he looked up and met Alex's gaze. "I'll stay with you for as long as I can."

If Desmond had any other solemn words to offer up, they were quickly drowned out by some surprised gasps when Alex leaned down and wrapped his arms around the other man; at least as much as he could, what with Desmond still lying down. It left the both of them with faces very close to one another's. Alex had on the typical neutral expression, which was altered a bit with a smile and a small upturn at the bottom of his eyelids. Desmond did a good job of looking shocked, before letting out a small laugh and trying to hug the other man back – only to find his arms pretty much pinned, and only able to grab reassuringly at Alex's coat sleeves.

"At least I have your support," he said, letting Alex pull away a bit. Desmond moved to the right and pushed on Alex's side; enough to persuade him to lie down next to him, so they could continue their conversation at the same eye level.

"You're my friend," Alex said at length. "That's what you do, right? Help one another out."

"Oh. Right. Friends. We were talking about that. Before, at least." Desmond shifted his eyes towards the ceiling, still content to curl up on his side; his arms pressing against Alex's, who was currently wondering if Desmond had heard that particular topic when Dana brought it up.

Probably.

_Shit_, he thought in the back of his head – there was that feeling of embarrassment resurfacing again. It made him feel vulnerable; definitely not a feeling that he was accustomed to. Or liked, for that matter. If it was anyone else, he might have suspected that this was being purposefully done – he glanced back at Desmond, wondering if he was going to say something.

Against his exposed arms, Alex felt very much like a sheet of paper. Most of the natural light was now hitting the back of his head, but he could still see Desmond: His entire body was dark; Mediterranean, almost. He knew that the other man didn't exactly frequent beaches or tanning beds. He wanted to ask if he came from some tropical place of origin – in case Desmond had an idea of his heritage, his ethnicity – and see if his guess was right. He stayed quiet, though, observing the look of concentration on the other man's face. He'd let him think. The ninety minutes or so of privacy Desmond was granted seemed to have improved his mood a bit. He was looking less like a worried, caged animal, and more like he usually did: Content; sarcastic; jokingly playful; the source of this internal warmth Alex had found himself craving so recently. As he looked into his face he felt the back of his throat tighten again, as if he couldn't get in enough air.

"What?" Desmond whispered, brown eyes widening as he once again took in the world around him.

"Just waiting for you to talk again," Alex offered, trying to shrug from his position on the bed. The result was adequate. "You looked like you were thinking about something."

"I was," he said absently; quietly. He reached to tug the hood down off of Alex's head. "Its summer – you should at least _pretend_ that you can get hot."

"Old habits die hard," he muttered, as Desmond shifted upwards a little bit, moving his hand down to Alex's face; his thumb on the bottom of his chin, his fingers stretching over the edge of his cheek. "What are you doing?"

Desmond had that same concentrated look in his eyes again – Alex felt impressed that he could still manage to keep his face helpfully disinterested. Desmond's hand felt warm, he thought for a moment; it felt good. Actually, he could go out on a limb and say that it felt _great_, but then again he didn't have a large point of reference to draw from.

"Making up my mind," Desmond finally admitted, and then he was leaning in and kissing Alex Mercer for the second time that week.

As far as he had been concerned, Alex had the whole 'physical dominance' thing locked up. If you could use a tank as your own personal battering ram, you weren't getting a lot of competition. But here Desmond was, and he had pretty much reduced the Blacklight Virus into a degenerate mess of confused emotions and an unsure stream of consciousness.

And the only muscle he had been using so far was his tongue.

_Huh_, He let the stutter wrap around his mind since _his_ mouth was certainly too busy to be forming words at the moment. Sometime between Desmond kissing him and Alex realizing exactly what he was doing, he had managed to get one hand pressing gently on the back of Desmond's neck, threading through the dark hair. His other arm laid uselessly under him, his finger tips resting heavily on Desmond's clothed stomach. There were two hands, now, on his face, wrapping around the back and side of his neck as if Desmond was attempting the impossible and trying to pull the both of them closer.

It was worth a try.

The both of them stayed like that for the most oblivious and possibly best moments of Alex's life. It wasn't until Desmond pulled away did he realize how deprived of oxygen they were – the sudden deep breaths making small burns in his vision.

He saw Desmond rub at his swollen lips with the back of his hand as he slowly sat up. He looked about as content as Alex felt; like he was in perfect harmony with the universe. "Well?" Desmond said at length, as if expecting some sort of feedback. Was that _normal_? Alex wondered, listening to the flurrying heartbeats of the other, quietly transported to his hands by way of the bed sheets.

"Great choice," he said, still out of breath in a way that no amount of extreme sprinting could ever really make him feel. "I am really, _really_ happy with your decision making tactics right now." Desmond laughed and straightened himself out – patting his hair down and righting his shirt and shorts. He offered a hand to Alex – one that he didn't need, but took anyway.

"Come on, Romeo," Desmond said lightly, "Let's get this place straightened out."


	13. Part XIII: Heaven

**PART XIII: Heaven**

_Vodka_ was a warehouse sized nightclub placed somewhere high on the West Strip, a few scant city blocks from the Bay and the Joe DiMaggio Highway. It had far outgrown the cheap bars and alcohol focused diners nested down in Greenwich and Upper Chelsea, and was much more concerned in the ever popular genre of simply showing off.

Before even coming to New York Zero, Desmond had made several presumptions about the world around him: One of which was that no matter how bad the economy tanked, no matter what the state of the world was – the riots and mass immigrations and even now the shutting down of one of America's last Industries (movies), there was always a reason to celebrate. This belief became cemented in Desmond's mind as truth night after night as he watched the patrons of _Vodka_ show up in yellow cabs and pricey shoes to do just that.

The drinks were expensive, the cover charge was expensive, and Desmond had never caught anyone inside wearing less than a presumed one-thousand dollars on their person. He'd worked for a few years in places like the Las Vegas strip and The Hills and some surprisingly posh places spread out in the likes of San Antonio or Seattle or Boston, so he hadn't been that nervous when the staff informed him during an interview that his uniform was a tie and a waistcoat short of a tuxedo, and that he was expected to learn how to set about twenty-three drinks on fire.

At the moment a pair of Manhattan cocktails were being ordered; two martini glasses were slammed down on the polished wood without a single clink, and he let the shaker stored under the counter come into view as if he had been secretly holding it behind his back the whole night. Expensive rye was quickly mixed with the ice, and the Vermouth and bitters were swiftly chased by cherry flavoring until it swirled through the drink like a bloody spiral.

He finished the order off by stabbing a candied cherry on an umbrella-garnished toothpick, letting it spin around in the shallow glass for a bit as he pushed the two drinks towards the patron who ordered it.

Desmond cracked his knuckles quietly under the table and took both the credit card and the five spot that the man on the other side of the bar offered him. He slipped the tip into the deep pocketed apron at his waist – low enough that it wouldn't be seen by the customers. Two cocktails were rung up and placed on some insurmountably high, imaginary tab before being handed back to the graying gentleman who had ordered them in the first place; someone who appeared to have all the visible marks of monetary success and none of the happiness to go with it.

Sensing a one minute lull in the orders he turned to the right, finding a veteran barkeep of _Vodka_ who addressed himself by the unglamorous name of Tim, despite possessing a manner of upbringing that suggested he had just as much funds to waste as the patrons he served most nights. His hair had the artificial precision of someone who had it cut and styled daily. In the three weeks Desmond had worked at _Vodka_, he had never seen the man's roots appear out of the lemon colored forest of closely cut hair.

Which made _him_ feel rather embarrassed when a layer of brown began to slowly rise from his scalp a handful of days ago; automatically disproving the pale blonde color he had gotten for himself, under the suggestion of a better disguise. There were also the contacts he had bought around the same time – a watery, unassuming green. Desmond always had the neutral looks and proportions that made fading into a crowd easy, so now he found that slipping into the mass of those adorned with artificial features gave him an even _larger_ safety net than before.

And once more, another hypothesis of the world was proven to him at his new workplace: Most people, given the choice, prefer blondes. Once, Desmond had asked Tim if being of a certain hair persuasion created that sort of disability for him. Tim had patted his own yellow head and admitted that he had been blonde so long that he couldn't remember. "They hit on you more, though." He noted. "I remember that. Or maybe I just stopped being fat. Either one." Desmond never accused his co-workers of being deep.

Now, Desmond looked forward at the silhouettes moving through the substantial purple lighting of the club, wandering through the halls and dance floor like they were stuck in some sort of dream.

Being hit on by wasted patrons or even totally sober – relatively sober, at least – customers was never something new to him. It wasn't anything more than uncomfortably flattering or annoyingly persistent – once in a while he even got a nice lay or a generous tip if he did more than just laugh off the comments. Of course, he remembered once when that sort of thing happened at _Mkinley's_ and Cynthia looked about ready to hop over the bar to defend his honor before Tabitha had smoothed everything over-

He blinked and rubbed at his eyes a bit; now where had _that_ come from? Desmond stumbled closer to his station; a drunken party at the height of excitement was there, waiting for the next round of drinks to keep them going.

There was a reason why Desmond made a habit of remembering _places_, not people.

The group yelled for a round of Flaming Absinthe and Desmond began pulling out the two ounce cups, trying to get his thoughts pulled back into a blank slate but not quite managing to do so.

It was going to be a long night.

**xxxx**

The thing about America was that no matter what region or what weather you were _supposed_ to have, July always ended up being _miserable_.

Hot, sour air smacked Desmond in the face as he descended shallow stairs to a subway station. It smelt like oil and piss, but Desmond supposed that _he_ wasn't much better off, either – it was too humid to wear clothes at all, much less a suit. He slid his Metro card through the metallic slit of the turnstile, and slipped through the five limbed wheel and out onto the main platform. Signs hung from above every few hundred feet or so. The One Local glowed as a red bullet point – it stretched the entirety of Seventh Avenue – this was the line he went on every night after work.

The twenty minutes of waiting for the train, riding in lonesome silence and working his way home were all agonizingly long and boring – so long and boring he had ended up blanking out until he stepped from the muggy air and into the cold of the apartment lobby from the back entrance.

It couldn't have been more than seventy but he still shivered at the quick exposure. No one except employees and delivery men used the back way – he had gotten away with it when he joked about some clingy ex waiting for him outside sometimes.

He believed that someone might have been waiting for him outside, of course. Just not… He shivered again. Calming down, he turned and rushed up the steps, getting more coherent as he rose through the levels.

By the time he reached the door his keys were already wrapped around his fingers, and he was already letting his feet slip out of the leather shoes he wore; preparing himself to kick them off and just _relax_.

The door creaked open in the unassuming way that nearly every normal door did, and it was probably the best thing Desmond heard all day.

He walked in, locking the door behind him, and trembled a bit. Even compared to the lobby, their apartment felt like an open freezer door. Desmond reached out his arm and clicked on a lamp and kicked off his shoes. "Alex," he called out, expecting the living room lights to come on or a disgruntled groan of his roommate wandering out of their bedroom, but all he could hear were the jingling of his keys as he set them down on the low bureau by the door.

"Alex?" he called out again, trying to strain his ears. He took a few steps forward, attempting to make out any figure in the black blanket that was 3:30 a.m. The curtains were drawn, and the dim tableside lamp he had turned on upon entering only lit up the four foot long stretch of foyer.

Desmond reached into his back pocket, trying to stave off his fear. Alex would give him his cell phone before he went out, just in case _something_ happened. Not that he ever _used_ it for anything other than a watch of course. _But hey_, his mind was shakily thinking - Alex could have left a message. He _had_ been gone for ten hours, after all.

He glanced down.

No missed calls. No texts.

Desmond put the phone on the table, urging himself forward enough to turn on the other room's lights.

He felt for a switch around the corner, willing his eyes to make out more than an innocent living room couch and harmless walls; wasn't there something there, in the corner? Couldn't he _hear_ something that sounded almost like drawn breaths or-

_Click!_

"Oh thank God," Desmond felt his knees weaken slightly at the sight of normalcy before him. No men in hockey masks, no roommate strung up from the ceiling, dripping blood. Good. That was good. He breathed out a little, relaxing. He barely had time to stiffen again when a hand came up and secured his mouth shut.

"This would really work a lot better if you don't scream." A deep voice said. Desmond began a low pitched wailing, muffled by the palm of the stranger's hand. And against the other's body, escape seemed difficult even as he began to try and turn, get his arms free just enough to throw a stunning punch.

He hitched his breath, smelling the dirt of the City, and feeling the extreme heat from the body holding him.

"Alex," he whispered, stilling his movements. He didn't have to wait long before the constraining arms were moved off of him.

Desmond turned around and punched Alex as hard as he could in the gut. The man at least had the decency to _look_ pained. "You're such an _asshole_. You know that, right?"

"Hey, if you can't hear me scaling across the ceiling-" He was pushed back into the wall.

"What would happen if that wasn't you?"

"Then I'm sure you could put that handgun I gave you to good use."

"Like it's ever _near_ me."

Alex shrugged in response, still looming a foot away. "I'm sorry," he said lightly. Desmond gave him a deadpan stare, still angry, still riled up from those fifteen seconds of adrenaline running through his veins. Alex kept on looking particularly mournful at the look he was getting, still looking apologetic at what he thought was a _joke_, so Desmond reasoned that he was just doing _himself_ a favor before closing the gap and kissing him, hopefully calming the other down.

"There are better ways of greeting someone," Desmond said, walking away. "Is it okay if I take a shower-?"

He felt himself being grabbed – _again_, goddamnit - and pulled backwards; now _he_ was the one up against the wall. Alex had a look of hunger and intensity in his eyes; little pinpricks of skin rose up on Desmond's arms for a moment. "Are you mad?" Desmond asked, feeling a moment of confusion; like Alex would ever get mad at _him_. Like in this moment, Alex _deserved_ to get mad at him.

"No, not mad." Alex made sure to unknit his eyebrows before continuing. "You just said there were better ways of greeting people, so…"

Desmond was immediately aware of a mouth on his neck. As if by impulse, his head shot up, and all he bothered to notice for a few sweet moments was teeth, and tongue, and the wet warmth that came with it.

"That's better," Desmond tried scratching out of his throat; the vibrations against Alex's mouth made the words struggle to form on his tongue. Eventually the other man shifted upwards and found his mouth once again busy.

With Desmond sliding his hood off and gripping the dark roots of his hair, Alex attempted to unbutton the long sleeved dress shirt that seemed to be universal bartending wear: Desmond's hands were on the back of his neck, his cheeks, his chest, and he soon found himself moving backwards and bumping into the antique bureau; severely lacking in two hoodies. He couldn't recall when _that_ development had come about, only that it took Desmond about one minute to do so. He growled deep in his chest when he pulled away and saw Desmond still with three buttons holding his shirt on. "You do this every time…"

"Maybe you should just accept the fact that I'm better than you at a few things." He let Alex finish unbuttoning the black shirt as he smugly ticked off several talents he was apparently superior in: "Alcohol, for one; staying inconspicuous; cooking – oh, and I'm a way faster reader than you, too." He let the light material ripple down his arms like a silk scarf on a woman's body lotion commercial. "And taking someone else's clothes off." He patiently began to work his hands down the other man's chest, gradually revealing more and more pale skin, which contrasted the summer tan Desmond had sported since last month in June. Alex watched the sweat press down on the other man's slowly browning hair, making it stick to his temples and forehead. Personally, Alex liked Desmond with brown hair; then again, he supposed he just liked pretty much _everything_ about Desmond, so why would he want to change _that_? He caught sight of dark eyes and was glad that the man had at least taken his contacts out before coming home.

"How do you get good at taking off someone's clothes?" Alex asked numbly, attempting to slide off his button up and shuck his shoes at the same time.

"Practice?" Alex turned to see the glinting of teeth as Desmond congratulated himself in the perversely sly remark. His lips were red and swollen as he stretched them wide across his face. Alex ran a tongue over his own mouth.

"Lucky you," he muttered; as he pressed against Desmond again, feeling that primal, _disgusting_ urge to taste the blood pumping under the impossibly thin skin of his lips. "Can I?" He breathed out, unable to elaborate, unable to _stop_.

"I trust you," Desmond started, not bothering to add anything more as he felt a long and lingering sting on his lips; and several finger thick tendrils of biomass creeping up his chest, wrapping around his arms, shifting and sliding over exposed flesh like their master's fingers and mouth were.

"_Jesus_ fucking _Christ_…" he moaned a bit, drawing his hands and nails slowly down Alex's back, picking up and stroking a tendril if it started teasing his waistband too much.

They continued like that, moving against each other and taking miniscule steps across some place that they couldn't quite remember _where_, and so they both hardly realized the couch in their way.

"Shit," Alex muttered, nearly collapsing on top of Desmond as they both tumbled onto the sofa. "You okay?"

Desmond straightened himself out pretty quickly: He felt the tendrils shutter and slide away as he wriggled his body to the other end of the couch – tossing the unmatching pillows as he went. Now he was half sitting up, using his elbows to tilt forward and watch Alex, who was perched on the edge of the couch like a large, contemplative bird. Every time he moved, or breathed, or contracted a muscle, he knew Alex could see it, better than he could, too; the ripples in his stomach that showed as the skin bunched; the twisting hands at his side; his tattoo; his scars.

Alex didn't really recognize most of these traits as ugly or beautiful – the cultural trends of beauty were something he had to learn from scratch – attempted, anyway, and later abandoned for the sake of compassion or maybe just laziness. He recognized symmetry, and healthy characteristics a person would have – signs that a mate would produce good offspring. The instinctual type of knowledge which seemed rather pointless since Desmond was male, and Alex identified himself as a male and couldn't reproduce _anyway_. He still stared, of course, and during these interactions Desmond felt like he was on the observed side of a microscope – like these weren't loving gestures, but physical _exams_.

Eventually, he broke. "You're staring again," he said softly.

"…I just want to remember this. You." Alex offered. "I don't have a lot of memories that I like to keep, but you…" He glanced off to the side, abandoning the considerate soliloquy. Desmond was left gawking, feeling an emotional rush he was not yet ready to show to anyone – not even himself. Alex decided to rush ahead like the couch had only been a three second deterrent versus a three minute one. Soon the threads of biomass slithered back like a warm, silent snake; its mass somehow indefinite and changing against Desmond's skin. Through his stupor of pleasure and actual pondering he heard the clang of his belt as it was undone – he heard the fabric on him rustle and move as Alex shifted to put himself between his thighs.

The moment his pants slipped off his hips the tentacles seemed to regroup around his lower abdomen and groin; somewhere in between feeling rough and ticklish, Desmond shuttered and made a move to sit up again.

"What's wrong?" Alex asked, straightening himself out as well. "…Was it about what I said?"

"Yes," Desmond answered truthfully. He pushed himself farther back and sat against the arm of the sofa, ignoring the pants binding his knees. "Come here."

"You don't have to think about it," Alex offered.  
>"I know," Desmond motioned with his hand. "Just, come here, please?"<p>

The moment Alex was on his side of the couch, he was being grabbed by the shoulders and pushed back to his original spot, with Desmond now laying crunched up and on top of him; his shins pressing into his stomach and his feet dangling on the outside of the other's hips.

Alex was being attacked with open mouthed kisses on his face and neck, shoulders and chest. There was a hand pressing into, _cupping_ his ass, another holding his arm down. When he looked up, his biomass had woven cables around Desmond, pulling him down, as if he might be crushed in the permanent loving embrace he had started.

That… wasn't the reaction he had expected. Not that he was complaining, of course – not that he would _ever_ complain about something like _this_.

Another moment later and Alex had Desmond's face in his hands, and he could feel the tips of his eyelashes and the tips of his cheeks and the warmth of his face and the agonizingly basic amount of friction they had gotten themselves into; rocking, shaking, shifting until Desmond's legs uncurled and Alex could brush his feet against Desmond's toes. Sometimes, for a few precious moments, something stunning would hit the both of them full force and it felt like they were dying.

They wanted that feeling; _craved_ that feeling, and after a while their hyper sensitized bodies dulled against the hot intensity of their mouths, their limbs, and they both knew they needed something more.

"We should probably… go to the bedroom," Desmond whispered, panted, moaned, _something_ - moving his face up a few inches. Alex was once again staring at him, eyes glazed, and Desmond just felt hands and more tendrils touch his flesh – caressing his stomach and slipping tantalizing digits past the one piece of clothing he had left. He had to repeat himself twice and swat away a few limbs before Alex understood what he had said at all.

Alex ignored him, and tugged at his hair to get another kiss.

Desmond shook his head a bit, moving so he wasn't lying down totally flat. He held down Alex's arms as he shifted his weight to his hands, and tried to move past the haziness in his mind so he could actually get his point across.

"Do you know how to get stains out of a couch?" He asked, and finally Alex paused all action, if only in bewilderment. Desmond went on. "Because I sure as hell don't, and how often does your sister visit us here?" He had a rhetorical pause. "Oh right: Like three times a week. She's already like, 90% sure we do it on a regular basis anyway, and I am _not_ about to give her forensic level proof."

They blinked at each other, their breathing slowed.

"We can get a new couch," Alex insisted, breaking free of the other's hold to reach up and pull the other man back down with him on the couch.

The very narrow couch.

With slippery cushions.

Half of the pair ended up mostly dumped on the floor. Desmond took the opportunity to bolt; watching now from the bedroom doorway as Alex slowly stood up in front of him.

"…Bedroom?" Alex asked innocently, shrugging a bit as he spoke, as if it didn't really matter and the choice was trivial at best. Desmond gave him a look as he kicked away his pants, which had, like his underwear, been clinging desperately to his body for the past few minutes.

"Great idea, Alex – where _do_ you come up with this stuff?"

**xxxx**

"What time is it?"

"Nine."

"Do we have to get up?"

"…I have to take a shower."

"You can take a shower later." Desmond felt an arm slide up and over his waist, a hand brushing the invisible hairs on his belly. Mornings tended to work like this: Desmond had to eat, or bathe, or go to work, and Alex vehemently opposed all of the above for as long as he could. It wasn't even fair, really, to Desmond. He was using _Alex_ as a pillow – not the other way around, even if the only reason it worked out that way was because the other man's increased density meant that he would have to deal with a crushed ribcage in the morning if their positions changed. At any rate, it wasn't as if he was being severely trapped by body weight. At least both of them weren't in that much of a rush this particular morning, so he could afford to waste some time.

He shifted as much as he could, feeling the dark curls Alex normally kept hidden under a hood – kissing the other man's temple until he was allowed to sit up.

"You're _stubborn_ today, aren't you?" Desmond said, mentally blanching as he unstuck his thighs: He smelt like a raided mini bar and sweat and sex – _almost a rockstar_, he thought torpidly, crawling to the edge of the bed and getting up. He _really_ needed that shower. Behind him, Alex made a proud humming sound and reached out a hand to casually wrap around Desmond's hip – his ultra warmth making the artificial chill of the apartment that much more apparent. He could feel fingers pressing against his skin slightly, and he shuffled forward a bit so Alex could press his cheek onto his side, forehead reaching the last pair of his floating ribs. _He_ smelt crisp and fresh – most likely because _he_ had taken a shower while Desmond had been asleep. It was actually kind of funny; Alex didn't sleep. He didn't _need_ to sleep, but Desmond always woke up next to him as if the other had just happened to reach consciousness a moment before Desmond himself did.

Alex was staring up at him now, all half lidded eyes and lazy smiles. His warmth was particularly distracting, and so it took a few moments for Desmond's body to actually turn and back away, now holding back Alex's constricting arm, and twisting their fingers together instead.

"How about you just take another shower with me?" Desmond offered. He watched with some satisfaction as Alex's eyes got a cloudy look to them. "I've got time today."

The other man had some restriction to at least _pretend_ to consider those words. They both knew his answer, though, so Desmond just bent down and kissed Alex's knuckles until the other man decided to speak again.

He didn't have to wait long: "Deal."

**xxxx**

"_Now_ what time is it?"

"Eleven… thirty? No, that can't be right-" The clock on the stove proudly displayed the small green numbers. Desmond let out a whistle.

"Water and Heating's going to be a bitch if we keep on doing this every week."

"It's worth it, though, right?" Alex said, ruffling his damp hair. He had bothered to put on clothes while Desmond remained in a pair of shorts.

"Always is." He grabbed both of their towels and handed them off to Alex, letting him wander over to the door sized window in the living room and hang them on the very top safety bar, the only one that hadn't been taken out. It was sunny – it was always sunny nowadays. "So… are we having breakfast or lunch?" Desmond asked from the closet-sized kitchen.

"You could have brunch, I guess. That's like the hybrid."

Desmond wrinkled his nose up. "That word is just… really obnoxious. I feel like I have to be some posh British prick just to _say_ it right." Alex shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile.

"Alright, whatever you want, then."

"Damn straight, 'whatever I want,' _I'm_ the one who cooks."

"You could always teach me," Alex supplied.

"Yeah… I asked Dana about that once, and she said that her attempts didn't end well." Desmond reached over to pat Alex on the shoulder, and then stretched to grab a pan hanging on the drying rack. "Stick to doing the laundry, sweet cheeks. You're good with machines."

Alex blanched at the nickname and the sardonic, overly large smile Desmond had given him. "Isn't sex supposed to make you _easier_ to deal with?" Desmond began cracking a few eggs into the sizzling pan.

"Maybe you're losing your touch."

"…We've only been sleeping together for a month."

"Maybe I have a high turnover rate?" Desmond mused, tapping his hands on the countertop as he watched the breakfast in progress cook.

"You said you only had time for a few one night stands before me, anyway; I'm guessing no one else could stand you even _if_ you had stuck around."

"Ouch. Love you too, Alex." He blinked a few times, wondering if Alex was trying to figure out if that little slip of phrase had any meaning. '_Love'_ was a dangerous attachment. There was friendship, and trust, and awesome sex; all of which both men could easily admit to sharing. But _Love_? That was still something they didn't really talk about – and would probably never talk about, if either took into account how easily their relationship would have to fall by the wayside, if something were to come up. The realization – or the _remembrance_ of the realization – that Desmond could be gone in the next hour was always an unpleasant one – something that made both their stomachs turn.

But Alex seemed to realize what was and was not supposed to be taken seriously, because he just changed topics as if no moment of awkwardness had happened. "You want me to get the plates?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Desmond felt Alex move around behind him, and he kept tapping some unconscious rhythm on the countertops, staring out at nothing.

**xxxx**

"…So then I just shoved Tim over her way and left." Desmond finished, remembering the bleary work night from the day prior. He finished the story and reached for a cup of coffee on the table – he wasn't sure which one was his and which one was Alex's at this point, but it didn't really matter.

"Does that sort of thing happen often?" Alex asked.

"What?"  
>"People… hitting on you at work." He squinted; his eyes still glowed despite the absence of a hood. "Don't look at me like that."<p>

"Yeah. Sometimes they're drunk, sometimes they're sober enough to know that they just like what they see. Why? Are you jealous?" Desmond said, smiling easily. He leaned over the table a bit.

"Yeah, sure, I'm jealous…" Alex mumbled, trying to make his words as incomprehensible as possible.

"Afraid I'm going to meet someone else who can whisk me away to Park Avenue?"

"I doubt people who live on Park will visit a club, Desmond. The West Side has rich people but there's still a hierarchy here."

"You never know." He rested his chin on his fist and glanced around the kitchen. There wasn't much to look at, of course, and he was done with his scrutinizing scan about two seconds after he started. The walls were some warm tone of white that probably had a name like, 'Morning Breeze' to go with it. Most of the paint was covered up by wooden cabinets, a chrome fridge and matching stove, anyway. The rest of the visible walls were bare; neither of them really had much taste for interior decorating, he guessed. Dana had to more or less force them out to get things like curtains and silverware. That day had been… interesting.

"You know I'd choose you, though, right?" Alex stole back what was evidently his coffee mug.

"That's what you tell me."

"Well, I mean it." Desmond said, and his throat tightened again just like last night. He was going to ignore it, but then decided that it was always good to change things up a little: "Do feel like you're having heartburn? Like, right now?" Alex glanced up at him from over the edge of the cup.

"…I don't have a heart, Desmond."

"Well, a pain in your chest, then."

"Now? No."

"When you get shot, then – or something?" Desmond stood up and reached for both their empty plates.

"Or if you leave me by myself for too long, sure."

"Just like a loyal dog." Desmond said, ducking his head and dumping the plates in the sink to soak. He flipped the tap on. "Go check the mail before I call Dana and tell her you're being sentimental again. If you act too nice we might just think that the _real_ Alex is missing." The chair screeched back with movement, and there was a hand trailing over Desmond's back as Alex wandered from the room. He heard a door shut a few seconds later, and he was alone in their thousand square foot flat.

Desmond shut off the water and meandered back into the bathroom.

The air was still damp from the shower. The humidity felt sticky on his skin, and his fogged reflection grinned deviously back at him as he reached for his toothbrush, his mind half stuck in past visions…

He spit blue foam into the sink and his mouth felt cold and clean. He ran his tongue over his teeth and caught his gaze again. He looked… good. Better than before. He gingerly touched a hand to his face, under his left eye. There was no purple, bruise-like marks there; his eyelids weren't puffy from lack of sleep anymore. His face, his hands, were glowing from long days in the sun. It was the most tan he had been in years, maybe even since –

He blinked, and swallowed, letting his fingers drop down to his lip. He ran the fingernail of his thumb along the pale line of his scar and twitched a bit, the line feeling numbly strange. A corner of his lips were still a dark red – Alex's fault.

That grin came back again. This was insane; that somebody else was making him happy like this – somebody _allowed_ him to get long restful nights and barely even think about getting found out. When had he last thought about that sort of thing, anyway? Days? Weeks? The smile slid off his face.

He was slipping. He would have to remember to not just _forget_ that he was a wanted man; that one day, he'd have to leave Manhattan – he would have to leave Alex and Dana and Central Park where he could just lay on the lime colored grass; he'd have to leave the family owned bakeries lining the streets where he picked up breakfast in the week; the wine shops and lights and the way he would walk through everything with Alex besides him, how they would spend hours wandering aimlessly through the commercial districts, talking or just being quietly comfortable in each other's silence.

He would have to leave all that, one day.

Desmond heard the door open again, familiar feet stepping into the threshold. Yes, he would have to leave all that – _all this_, he reminded himself, pulling himself more firmly to the present – but he wasn't about to let carelessness make the time he had even shorter. He was nodding to himself, closing his hand tightly around the toothbrush fitting into the creases of his palm, and then Alex came in.

"Thought you got lost," he said, tone serious, mouth turned upwards by a few degrees. Desmond put the toothbrush back where it belonged as Alex moved behind Desmond, placing his chin on the other's shoulder, circling his arms around him to gently rasp down the brown skin of his bare stomach. Alex watched his fingers stretch in lazy, branching patterns, and he pressed his lips down to the skin of Desmond's shoulder as he shuttered at the feathery feeling moving across his abdomen.

"Thinking?" Alex asked finally, voice vibrating against Desmond's body.

"How'd you guess?"

"You've been thinking a lot lately."

"That's true," Desmond picked up one of Alex's wandering hands and kissed the bridge of his fingers. Once he glanced up and caught the mirror showing off their little moment. Alex didn't bother; he had the subject matter right in his hands.

"What about?"

Desmond felt a ripple of heat pass down Alex's body; he liked it. Smiling against the pale skin, he turned around and sat on the bathroom counter.

"Stuff," he said, blinking quickly.

"Well I'd assume so." Alex leaned forward a bit, hitting his stomach against Desmond's knees, arms spread out on either side of him. "Anything specific?"

"Sometimes the news. Sometimes work. Sometimes how awesome that Kawosaki Ninja motorcycle was down on the south end of Canal Street." Alex was smiling as Desmond talked. "I am a simple man with simple needs." he said, moving his face close enough to feel the extreme heat rolling from Alex's body in punctuated waves. Another moment later and he felt a jaw – soft lips - coming back to rest against his collar bone.

"Sometimes I think about this," Desmond whispered, gently pulling Alex's head back enough to kiss him once, and now the warmth passed through his mouth, stifling the both of them for a few hot seconds.

"This?" Alex let one of his hands slide under Desmond's thigh, just above his knee, feeling the coarse denim – rough and unpleasant in juxtaposition to Desmond's skin.

Alex sank down, resting his calves on the tile floor. They didn't move for a while, Alex just stared up at the other, a hint of a smile still staying on his lips.

One day, Desmond thought, reaching his hands down to Alex's shoulders, hauling him up to his feet again, this was going to end. He couldn't stay in Manhattan – _couldn't stay with Alex_ – forever. Maybe, at some level, Alex knew that too. That was why their idle moments were filled with pointed conversations and reaching, longing sessions like _this_. And he loved every second of those long talks and flurried kisses and groans and _everything_, but recently he could only feel anxiety pooling in his stomach, replacing the satisfaction and contentness he wanted.

Somewhere along the line, reality had caught up to him. And around the time that notion crossed his mind he noticed that his eyes were closed and Alex was just pressing his lips up to Desmond's forehead.

They were lying on the couch now, and Desmond had to stop himself from snapping his eyes open and giving himself a start. Sometimes that happened; sometimes he just ended up drifting to the back of his mind until he came snapping back into actuality. Usually when he was bored during a slow day in work, but now…

"I think too much," he supplied, shifting and rolling until he was lying down on his back, resting on top of Alex's stomach. Both their legs were forced to stretch off the couch due to the furniture's inability to hold two fully grown men lounging on the divan, backs up against one arm and toes touching the other. The energetic moments of last night had temporarily fled, leaving the both of them with a dull glow and – for Desmond, at least – a growing feeling of guilt for his inability to just _enjoy_ perfection while it lasted.

"I'm sure it's important." Alex said neutrally. Desmond looked down at his lap in an oppressive trance.

"I wish it wasn't," he admitted, and they sat in silence like that for quite a long while, watching the city and sky through their windows as if it was a whole other world.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I guess I'm one of those 'fade to black' people. Sorry. **

**Also, Part XIV (14) of **_**Affinity**_** will be coming out later than normal. In its stead there will be another Assassin's Creed/Prototype story. It's sort of a side story, and it has a different tone than Affinity, so that is why it's not just the next part. It's still Alex/Desmond, and it takes place between this installment and next installment. I encourage you all to read it, since it does tie in important themes with **_**Affinity**_**.**


	14. Part XIV: The Long Fall

Alex paused in the lobby, hands on the stairwell banister. He resisted the urge to turn and see if someone in heels was following him, making those little aggravating slaps on the tile, because he _knew_ it was him. The elevator shone out of the corner of his eye in the afternoon light, and he gritted his teeth before sprinting up the stairs. The considerably _large_ number of stairs. If his shoes weren't extensions of his body it might have even hurt.

He easily walked up to his apartment door – 22-E – and felt the familiar swell of biomass travel down his spine, spreading to his head, fingers, toes…

In a few reality rippling seconds, where a middle aged woman stood, Alex Mercer appeared, blue eyes blinking as he appreciated the extra inches he had regained. And the lack of a rose colored _Chanel_ suit. Taking someone else's appearance was an ability he had been reacquainted within the last weeks. It had been Desmond's idea – a safety concern, he said – and Dana had only made a joking comment about Desmond getting tired of his face; she wasn't too good at being a diplomat, as it turned out.

He decided he had made bigger sacrifices before, for other things. Smaller things. Years ago. Desmond could be as paranoid as he wanted to be, so long as he still trusted _him_.

Alex knocked on the door, and was greeted by Desmond a few moments later. He had his right hand on the door handle, and the left hanging down like a dead weight – it was usually like that, nowadays. Most of the hand – from the base of his fingers to the end of his wrist, was covered in white, scratchy gauze. That had happened about two weeks ago - _fifteen days, technically,_ he thought.

After his… slip up he had Dana contact Dr. Ragland – a man that he hadn't seen in years. He had long since emigrated from New York to Philadelphia, and Alex wasn't quite sure if Ragland was willing to make the trip because of the Hippocratic Oath, or the fact that he had helped Alex in the past.

Maybe he was just curious as to _who_ was so important that Alex Mercer needed to call in to ask a favor.

Desmond, for obvious reasons, didn't go to hospitals. Even with the help of fake papers and disguising accessories, the thought of actually walking into that sort of place made his eyes grow wide and his skin ashen. He got so anxious, nowadays. And even when Desmond reminded Alex again and again that it had nothing to do with him, the heavy sprain in his wrist and the bruised bones and slowly scarring cuts Alex saw whenever Desmond took off his bandages made him doubt those comforting words.

But now, instead of appearing out of the aperture with noted caution, Desmond just stood there with a welcome look on his face. In fact, he wasn't just smiling – he was looking ecstatic, practically vibrating with unshed energy.

"Did you change out here?" he asked, for once not seeming so concerned about the answer.

"Yes. Like always." Alex stepped through the threshold, the sunlight streaming through the open windows and staining the pale room a gentle shade of yellow. "You're up early."

"Had to be. I needed to take care of a few things. Well, two things."

"Uh-huh." Desmond wandered into the kitchen, and Alex followed. "…Like grocery shopping?" He stared down at a brown bag standing by itself on the kitchen counter.

"Hm? Oh**, **no." he moved forward and slid a glass bottle out of the bag with a rustle. "Found an awesome wine cellar down in Chelsea. Someone at the bar mentioned it last week." He handed the bottle off to Alex, who inspected it. The label was white and decorated in several scrawls of golden olive trees – matching the color of the glass. "You ever have Sauvignon Blanc?"

"Don't think I can even pronounce that. Besides, the only time I drank was when you served me back at _Mkinley's_… so, no." he handed the pale tinted bottle back to Desmond. "I figured you wouldn't drink wine."

"You just said _you_ don't drink – how would you know anything about that?" he put the bottle back in the bag, rolling it up. "I drink whatever. But people tend to look at you funny if you pull out a shaker around three in the afternoon." He turned his head to the side, nodding towards the kitchen chair - one of the only two that could actually fit in the room – and said, "Found that on sale. It's like my old one."

The thing in question was a white jacket. Alex walked over and picked it up. It was a thick pullover hoodie; red fabric decorated the inside in an effort to give it a unique mark. Admittedly, it _did_ look like the signature garment Desmond had on during winter – plus or minus a zipper, at least. It must have been comfortable enough for Desmond to wear it every day. At least until those… _men_ had more or less ripped it to shreds. Alex scowled at that thought.

"It's still summer," he supplied after a moment. He put the jacket back down. "Why do you need that?"

Desmond cocked his head to the side, thinking. "I guess I don't. I just… like the style. Always liked wearing white. And… hoods." He shrugged helplessly under Alex's gaze. "I don't know. I like being impulsive? Besides, I know how bad New York is in the winter now; just trying to prep."

"In August?" Alex caught the subtext that maybe; just maybe, Desmond would still be around when winter hit Manhattan again.

Alex couldn't feel the cold like the humans in the city, but it still reached him, in a way. The chilling weather would appear, covering the city much like a blanket of snow for a good seven months. It would bite down, not relinquishing a hopeful day of reprise, of pale cobalt skies or white sunlight to filter down into the frosty air. Not anymore, at least. The temperance of the world's climate had quickly waned over the years, and New York Zero was not immune to the changes. Now winter stuck into you like a twisted, rusty nail, numbing but lingeringly painful, as citizens suffered under the never ending dread a cold, blue rut. Alex could imagine the streets lined with muddied gray slush – over packed stores; blasting, stiffening winds that froze you in place with their touch; and the influx of the ill commuters blinking miserably up at him with red, puffy eyes before sinking their faces back into their tissues and scarves – definitely not picturesque scenery. But then, in a few months time, Desmond could be there beside him – buried under coats and hats when they were outside, spooned against him in bed at night, wrapped up in each other's company, talking about the fast slew of holidays that they never bothered participating in and just being side by side somewhere, _anywhere_ in the city – and Alex wanted to shake himself and say that nothing about that idea was guaranteed, and he shouldn't even be thinking into next _week_, let alone two, three months from now. No frostbitten noses and numb hands he would have to hold; no flashing lights and snowflakes hitting the window like fast travelling stars – _none of that_, he thought.

He would have reminded himself of this and pulled himself out of his dreaming – back into reality; but he didn't. He just really didn't _want_ to think about any alternative time where he didn't have Desmond around.

Maybe the dependency bothered some people, but it could never bother him.

Glancing up at Desmond, he was handing him the paper bag. When Alex took it, he moved back, out of the kitchen and towards the door. "The other thing's outside."

"Outside?" Alex repeated, feeling his skin ripple once more as he prepared to leave the apartment again, still with half a mind on other things.

"In the garage across the street. Meet you there." He said, leaving without barely a glance backwards at Alex, nearly running down the hall in his haste.

**xxxx**

Alex admitted to never being able to fully appreciate certain human habits: For example, bathing was a necessity, but never a pleasure – he never looked _forward_ to ending a long day by standing under a scalding stream of fluid that made his entire surface area twitch. And _sleeping_? Well, both he and Desmond knew that he would be better off if he never had a moment of unconsciousness again.

And of course there were those other things - Raising children, having pets… strange norms he could never completely grasp.

"…You got a motorcycle," Alex supplied dully, the voice of the body he was using sounding rather bored and low and scratchy. Modes of transportation – and those who had an obsession with them – were apparently yet another one of those things Alex Mercer couldn't quite _get_.

Sure, not everyone could outrun a sports car, and people needed to get somewhere quickly; plus, as far as Alex knew, he was the only one who could just kick off from the rooftops and start _flying_. But still, Desmond was cooing over the bike as if it was the last thing he had claim to in the world; hovering over it, taking away invisible specks of grime with the hem of his shirt. Alex had seen that affectionately doting behavior before, usually in places like Central Park.

Usually involving a group of Mothers playing show and tell with their newborn offspring.

Huh.

"It's a _Kawasaki Ninja_ brand. I was shooting for a Fourth Generation – but I didn't even know they _had_ the Third Gen on the market still." He flicked his eyes over to Alex's disguised form. "They stopped making these in '07."

"These?" Alex said, trying to throw himself into the conversation. Maybe he could learn something if Desmond slowed down enough. He glanced down at the bike. It had been made for long distance and speedy travel. It was low to the ground with a seat that would make one lean – not too far – forward, so that you would end up balancing most of your weight on the handlebars. The front and sides were laden with protective shelling; jutting out at acute angles like odd fabric cuts; the intent seemed less focused on aerodynamics and more towards the cool factor. Those bits of heavy duty plastic were shiny and glossy – the color of a Maraschino cherry.

The silver pipes that took up the space past the covering looked like a small orchestra of horns lined up; all pretty and polished and ready to make noise. Even the leather of the seat seemed to shine, along with the bright helmet sitting neatly on top of it; one of the two accessories Desmond wasted no time in getting. The last frivolous detail to end the picture happened to be a small lockbox fashioned on the back, right above the license plate. It wasn't much – it could hold maybe a backpack if it wasn't too full and you spent a few minutes stuffing it inside, but it would easily fit, say, the wine bottle. To prove the point, Desmond unlocked the compartment and stored the little bag inside, before stepping back again to get lost in the – apparent - mix of efficient machinery and beautiful art.

The entire thing gleamed, and the new smell of leather mixed with the tint of gasoline that clung in the air. Alex supposed it _was_ nice: New, operational, that sort of thing – but he was still left staring at Desmond's wide eyes and excited, almost spasming movements as if there had to have been something _else_ there - something he couldn't see – that was making the other man lose his voice and stare in unadulterated awe.

"It's an EX-250 F. I mean, the most widespread model. The engine displacement's 248ccs."

"Is that good?"

"That's _great_. It can go zero to sixty in less than six seconds."

"…Um, miles to the gallon?"

"Forty-eight at cruising speed. I mean, _man_." He dropped down onto his knees, touching his fingers to the twinkling metal of the bike's side and underbelly. Alex could see the newly dyed blonde tips of his hair from where he was standing, but that was about it. "Even back a few years ago in the shitty economy, these were ten thousand. But now the down payment on this was barely eight hundred."

"How much all together?"

"Little over three grand… Their company filed for bankruptcy two weeks ago and, well… they're selling what they can. Just like everyone else." Instead of smiling at the motorcycle he turned his head up to Alex. "I haven't had to pay rent in a while, so – thanks. I didn't have to worry about skipping meals to get this."

"Are you sure this is _just_ a guilty pleasure?" Alex asked as Desmond got up, reaching for the polished red helmet – which had, up until that point, taken up staring at some of the supportive concrete pillars of the parking garage. "And not say, some weird fetish you haven't told me about?" Alex caught a grin directed at him before Desmond pulled the helmet over his head, flipping the black visor down.

"Nah, if I was into that I'd buy some old _Cadillac_ or something." His muffled voice called out. He swung a leg over the machine without even really looking – as if he and the bike had already been together for years. "Even with the kickstand up you can't get much of a rhythm going."

Alex snorted. "I'm guessing you want to take this out for a spin with Dana later?"

"Later? We have to go _now_. Who knows, maybe I could beat you in a race on the way to her place."

"Sure." Alex moved so he was at the side of Desmond's bike. "Just don't take too long or else I'll think you went off on a cross country road trip. Something along those lines." He slowly began to mold back into his default form.

"I always wanted to find myself," Desmond said with a mocking fondness; one too many Life Story Spills at the bar, Alex guessed. He looked down, patting his chest. "Oh. Wait. I'm right here. I guess that identity crisis will have to wait." He twisted in his seat and wriggled a bit as the engine roared into life, a minute cloud of gasoline rising into the air. Alex leant forward and touched his arm gently.

"What?" Desmond shouted through the piercing mechanical purr.

Alex leaned forward and kissed the opaque blackness of Desmond's visor. "See you at Dana's," he said in an almost beckoning way. _I'll get there first_, he was saying, and Desmond pressed on the gas that much harder; hands – _both_ _hands_ - rolling across the handlebars as he started forward with a hard, testing nudge before he went all the way and sped off; down, down, _down_ the aisles of parked cars before taking a sharp right and disappearing. The sound carried for a little while longer, and then he was out, somewhere on the street, heading North.

Alex stared around the open building and spotted a small car, far at the end of the row and facing one of the many open, glassless windows of the place. He eased himself forward, back bending down as he rushed, ran, sprinted, and propelled himself up off the hard ground and over the car. For a few seconds he flew; getting closer and closer to the ground below. The long fall was quick to anyone but him – since he had gotten used to almost parachuting down when he leapt – if only to save on construction repairs and federal grief, and that precious biomass he had stored. A few people pointed him out as he landed and went off in a dash again; location known, objective echoing in his head:

_Beat Desmond Miles._

The goal wasn't serious, but he still fled past cars and pedestrians as if something more important than bragging rights hung in the balance.

He let the feeling stay – the idea that maybe doing this sort of thing with Desmond was the only thing he _ever_ did with his powers. No Outbreak or Cross or Greene or Heller or Blackwatch or anything – there was Nothing here, in this moment, just like in his dream – but here, he was happy. Here he did not hurt. Here he was content to not remember anything and only look forward, as if life was just a one-way street he moved down at a blinding pace. He liked that idea, this concept Desmond had given to him – the reality Desmond had graciously _saved_ him from.

At a particularly high jump from a congested sidewalk and onto a lamp post, his hood flew off, and the sun reached out and touched his head with hot yellow fingers.

In that moment, summer was eternal.

**xxxx**

Dana huffed into the telephone, and remembered that editors could not actually read minds. "But you said, you _said_ that you would publish those two articles on Abstergo. I have the contract – I have the paycheck!" she couldn't count the times she had almost let a cuss slip – she had meant to kick the habit, quite a few times, actually, just because it wasn't all that professional or appealing to call a client a bitch in front of your boss… but goddamnit did she want to _punch_ something. In the _face_.

"_We realize that, Ms. Mercer_…" the woman on the other line was typing away. She probably had her on speaker so she could check up on _Facebook_ and eat some stupid low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie yogurt that was meant to taste like chocolate mousse. She _sounded_ like that anyway. Like she was bored; like she _deserved_ to get punched in the face. She continued her jaded monologue, unaware of Dana's building anger towards her. "_However, our lawyers found a loophole in that we are not allowed to print works that may be taken as offensive to certain clientele_."

"What clientele do you have? It's a… it's a gossip magazine – what does it matter?"

"_Many readers buy medication and products from the Abstergo Corporation_," she said evenly. Dana was attempting to give the woman the Evil Eye over the phone.

"I'm sure a lot of them work for the U.S. government, too - but you had no problems printing those articles I wrote about _them_ last month."

"_Oh, that was you?"_

"…I'm one of your regular authors."

The statement was quickly hand waved. Dana imagined the woman miming the action and falling out of her seat. "_We have decided to let you keep the entirety of the check we mailed to you – however, we most likely will not be needing your services in the future_."

"…You're firing me. From a freelance position."

"_We are, in a way. We're sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Mercer. We hope that-_" Dana hung up, and hurled the little plastic phone onto the couch. It bounced against the cushions, safe from the potential fall, but it didn't pack the same punch as watching it break might have.

"God _fucking_ damnit," she hissed, fingers pressing into her eyes. She had been trying to clean up the apartment when she got that call. Now she wanted nothing more than to go a few rounds with a punching bag and take a nap. But her sheets were in the wash. And she didn't have a gym membership. And Alex wasn't there. "God fucking _damnit_," she said again, not sure what else to do in light of the shitty, _shitty_ twenty minutes she was having at the moment.

Somewhere by her apartment door, the bell trilled along; someone was downstairs, wanting to be let in.

"Go _away_," she said, but they couldn't hear her, and the persistent ringing was making her head rattle.

"You should probably answer that," Alex said, slipping through the half open window in Dana's main room. "It's probably Desmond."

She didn't move. "This is kind of a bad time. I was cleaning, and then I got fired. From a freelance job." She looked down. "Also, I'm kind of still wearing my pajamas." She stretched the blue flannel of her pants and dragged herself to her feet.

"Desmond brought wine. And a motorcycle."

Dana pursed her lips. The buzzing was still going on behind her.

"_Alright_, fine. I'll go let him in…"

**xxxx**

"You know, you've been nursing that one glass for half an hour, Desmond," Dana said, leaning over the couch, second drink now depleted in her hand.

"You drink wine for the flavor," he said, giving her an aside glance. "Not so you can pass out on the floor as soon as possible. Like you seem to be trying to."

"I had a rough day."

"The days not even over yet."

"Yeah, shit. Don't remind me." She reached for the bottle.

"…Besides, I leave for work at five – bars are kind of strict when it comes to not _visibly_ acting like an alcoholic." Alex glanced from the news station displayed on the television screen to the two people sitting on the sofa next to him.

"My job doesn't _box me in_, Desmond." Dana shot back.

"Didn't you say that one of the magazines you send articles to let you go _and_ blacklisted you today? Yeah, my bar doesn't do that."

"Um." Alex wasn't totally sold on the idea that Desmond and his sister were joking. He glanced around the apartment – every surface area was covered with… stuff. Except for about a square foot of the coffee table, where Dana had shoved off a pile of books to make room for the drinks. Dust had settled much like the summer pollen had outside – the windows and curtains were tossed wide open, flooding in the white light of another hot day, but there was still the shuffling scent of mold and accumulated age passing through the air – Alex was sure only he noticed it.

Speaking of things only he was noticing, he could hear sirens.

He rose from the couch, making wide strides over winter coats and trashed shoes and piles of CDs, labeled in Dana's handwriting with dates and titles such as; "_99% Trending Scandals_" or "_Wall Street Notes #23_" or even "_2009 Lice Infestation – possible causes_". He leaned out the window and saw a small fleet of flashing lights down on the ground: Three police cars and four fire trucks, all heading East. A rush of wind came up from that direction, and carried along the floral aromas of summer and the typical city scents. And, somewhere within all of that, there was the smell of smoke.

"What is it?" Desmond asked, turning to look as Alex bent over the window frame, glaring out like a caged bird. Dana turned her attention to him, as well.

"…Think there's a fire. Somewhere close by; I can smell it, but I can't see the flames." He slowly straightened up and took an unwilling step back.

"Well, go then." Dana prompted. "If you want to."

He cast a look at both of them; inquisitive. "You don't mind?"

"Why would we mind? You're helping people – that's like a doctor refusing to help somebody choking because he's at a dinner party." Dana blinked. "Or something. Whatever. Just _go_, Alex. We'll be waiting for you when you get back," She smiled at him; one of those big, proud smiles she shot out at her friends every once in a while. Her pale face and red lips made her look like a doll in that instant, but her eyes gleamed brightly – she was proud of _him_.

Alex only broke eye contact with her when Desmond stood up from the couch and wandered over.

"You said you were waiting for an epiphany," Desmond said. His smile was tinier; his movements subtle.

"Guess I just needed you," Alex muttered. Dana made a face and turned back to the TV; Alex ignored it.

"No, _you_ need to get shoved out the window, now. We can wait – fires don't." The smile went away, and Alex made a move to turn around when Desmond reached behind Alex's head and pulled his hood up over his face. "Protecting your secret identity," he whispered, before pulling the other close for a quick, searing kiss good-bye.

"I'll be right back," Alex said, already halfway out the window. Desmond waved his bandaged hand.

"I'll be here."

Alex let go of the building and plummeted towards the Earth.

**xxxx**

"I am _so_ sorry you had to see that," Desmond said sarcastically, walking back over to the couch. He found his glass and took a quick drink; the bitter flavor of the wine made his tongue crinkle and his throat get all bubbly – the flavor lingered on his lips long after the heat of Alex's mouth had faded.

"Yeah, yeah. If I had a boyfriend I would make out with him in front of _you_ guys, but I don't think Alex could take that."

"Probably not." Desmond put the drink down, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and sank back into the couch. "And we do _not_ make out. Not when you're around, at least."

"You sure?"

"Oh, that was a kiss. Trust me; I don't think you could handle anything more than that." Dana stuck a finger in her mouth and made a gagging noise; rolling her eyes up to the ceiling at the same time. Desmond smirked and watched Dana settle back into a normal expression before she turned back towards the news. Desmond tried to take in the clutter of Dana's apartment, instead – it was probably a lot less depressing. Catching a splash of red, he glared at a space under the coffee table and leaned forward, pulling out a bright shoebox. He read the side of it; "_Photos_?" he asked, turning towards Dana.

She shrugged. "Well I'm not exactly into scrapbooking or any of that stupid shit." Desmond slowly took the cover off and glanced inside; there were three stacks of glossy pictures, and when Dana didn't say anything, he gingerly picked up one of the bundles and began to flip through them. "They're mostly college stuff – parties, games…" she blinked. "Wait," Desmond looked up and gave her the collection of photos. She quickly flipped through a few of them. "Yeah, this one's okay." She grabbed the box, putting it on her side of the couch and out of Desmond's reach. "Just… yeah, just those."

"Have a good time at NYU?" Desmond said dully, taking the apparent 'safe' stack back.

"There are pictures in this box that could ruin my career in journalism," she said; she didn't sound particularly embarrassed at the fact. "…You know, more than just being an investigative journalist."

"Hm." He moved through the photographs with idle interest, like he was slowly counting out a deck of cards. Dana turned her attention back to the TV, only turning back towards Desmond when he spoke up with comments like, "When did you have long hair?" or "Is this Jill and Theresa?" or even, "Wait, you got arrested? And someone took a _picture_ of that?"

"It was a protesting thing." Dana explained at that. "Happens more than you'd think."

Desmond sucked his teeth and kept looking.

About twenty minutes since finding the box, he was working through the last few images and stopped.

He put down the rest of the pile, barely holding the one singular photo – the one that made him pause – with the tips of his fingers.

Finally he said; "…Is this Alex?" Dana straightened from her lazy position and looked over. Desmond didn't move to hand over the picture, wasn't moving at _all_, so she had to crane her neck.

"…Yes."

Desmond exhaled slowly and nodded; making the smallest degrees of motion with his neck. He leaned forward, getting as close as he could to the picture before he went cross-eyed.

The picture was taken in the fall – probably in a park, or maybe on some unspecified campus. Skeleton-like trees jutted out at the background, red and orange leaves surrounding the two people in the print as if they were on fire. In the foreground, taking up most of the image was Alex Mercer – tan, and younger, and obviously _human_ – holding a young blonde woman with side swept hair. She looked beautiful. They both did, in a way: Hands intertwined, heads and bodies poised just so, as if it was the product of a photo shoot – as if a hundred samples were taken, and _this_ one was picked because it looked right: Clean; professional; crisp.

"He looks so…_dead_." Desmond supplied. His voice was full of some melancholy tone. He kept on staring at the picture, long after he had run out of things to see.

"He was dead to a lot of people," Dana whispered.

"When was this –"

"Seven years ago. I took the picture. They had been dating a year and that was the only time I ever saw them together. One of the only times I ever saw Alex."

"Who was she?"

Dana hesitated for a moment. Desmond didn't demand an answer, but there was a great intensity in his voice that she had never heard before – he hadn't even looked at her during their conversation.

"Her name was Karen Parker," she finally admitted. "She worked in Gentek, too. She had connections to Blackwatch when the Outbreak started."

"Was she a spy?"

"She tried to kill Alex – _our_ Alex - she knew what he was long before he did. She might have even felt _bad_ for him, but sympathy kind of does shit when there's a gun being pointed at you from all sides." Dana exhaled and went back to her more comfortable spot on the couch. "At any rate, I never got the chance to interview her, if that's what you're asking."

"Where is she now?"

Dana shot a glance towards the door. "Don't know." There was the unsaid fact that Alex would, though.

"He just…" Desmond finally put the picture down at the edge of the coffee table. Still staring, still searching for something. "That's who he was?" The slicked back hair and tan skin and pale, dull eyes stared back at him. The woman, the clothes – the staged, constrictive world the man had displayed in that one tiny picture – none of that was real. "…Can't be real."

"It was." Dana insisted. Desmond still wasn't moving. A few more moments passed, with only the small murmurings coming from the TV staving off total silence. "…You can keep it, if you want," she said. _Then_ Desmond turned to her.

"Why would I want a picture of _him_?" he seemed offended. He quickly grabbed the rest of the photos and crammed the one that had obsessed his mind into the middle of the stack; hiding it. He offered them back to Dana, finally, so that she could put them back in the box.

Dana reached out her hand, still wary, wondering why Desmond was acting – acting like her fucking _brother_ in one of his _moods_, of all things – but Desmond nudged his hand forward again and she took the bundle, putting it back where it belonged. "Why would I want the picture of a _monster_?" Desmond said under his breath; he cast his lingering gaze over to the window.

"When do you think Alex will come back?"

"You can go, if you want," Dana said politely. Desmond seemed a bit… off, all of the sudden. "Go for a ride, maybe." Desmond turned back to Dana and seemed to remember where he was; he settled down in a more natural position on the couch, as if nothing had happened at all.

"I promised Alex I'd wait for him," he said gently, in a way that made Dana's chest tighten a bit; hearing the attachment there. "And usually my word means shit, but for him, I mean everything I say." The fingers of his bandaged hand twitched a bit, and Dana was going to speak up – ask him how his hand was doing – but he suddenly reached for the remote lounging on the table and turned up the volume on the TV.

The conversation was over.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Please enjoy my failure to properly explain transportation vehicles. Also, for those of you wondering what happened to Desmond's hand, refer to my side story, **_**Nightmare Again**_** if you haven't already.**


	15. Part XV: Last Time

The sky had diminished into a navy blue dome with purpling edges. It was too early for stars – and remarkably, the city was _still_ too densely populated to show them off. But the street lamps provided just as good illumination; butting through the heat hazy air with yellowing light.

About a block and a half away from the bar, Desmond paused under one of the lights and turned around, finding Alex Mercer somewhere in a casual looking red – head who, judging by his sweatshirt, had attended Manhattan College some time before Zeus had consumed him. "Can I ask you a favor?" he said.

The man – _Alex_ – moved his shoulder's back a bit and placed his – _Alex's_ – feet a little more firmly on the ground, still having the subtle difficulties of adjusting to the stocky build and stomping walk of the new shell. Desmond figured that _he_ would too; he had seen a guy like the one Alex was posing as – that had been in _Mkinley's_, and Desmond struggled not to wince as his brain flashed back to that place: A sporty guy with the same build came in there once in a while to flirt with Tabitha. He had been redheaded, too. A football player, probably. Maybe Rugby.

Huh.

Desmond resisted the urge to give his head a mind clearing shake, and he dragged himself out of that unwanted flashback just in time to hear Alex – well, the _man's_ voice, actually – ring out with a patient, "Sure."

Alex was always patient now. And Desmond wanted to come up with a billion bullshit excuses as to _why_, but he already knew. Every time he looked down at his hands, he knew. He grabbed the streetlight pole and leaned back a bit, putting the long rod of metal in between them: "I want you to stop walking me to work," he said, his voice sounding embarrassed, unwilling, and rushed all at once.

Alex, well, the body Alex was – _ugh, yes, okay, we get it,_ he thought – _Alex_ paused for a few moments before letting out a light tipped, polite little "_What?_"

"Um," Desmond watched a few people pass them by, and his skin pricked up a bit. They were probably on their way to _Vodka_, like he was, but still – he got a nervous feeling from everything these days. Alex followed the group with his eyes, and when their chatter waned away down the road, Desmond went on. "I mean, sometimes I think people might… notice you." They usually did. At some point Alex – still referred to as Zeus, in these cases - was showing up in the public eye with a sort of regular repetition; usually on the late night news, maybe on the back sections of a newspaper; that sort of thing. Nothing major – there were way more important things like stock failures and riots and famine going on to pay much attention to uplifting stories – but whenever they were out in public, and Alex bothered to morph from a chosen disguise into his default look to take off after some thug, or make sure a man on his bike didn't get crushed by a taxi, or _something_, Desmond would hear excited whispers ripple around him; the artificial click and snap as camera phones went off; a few excited strangers asking if he had seen _that_ – it was all kind of charming in a way. Like dating a superhero. Watching as Alex raced off to _help_ somebody made him grin for a few priceless seconds before his brain managed to kick back up again.

So people were starting to recognize Alex. As a good person, but still, the more people saw of 'Zeus' as it were, the more Desmond felt he was being watched. For a while, they had both agreed that Alex would simply morph into someone else when they were out, but now…

"I thought changing myself was enough," Alex supplied, looking down at himself, at the alien clothes, alien body.

"That's what I thought, too." Desmond tossed a glance behind him, even though those people were long gone. He felt a little uneasy when he looked at the other man – staring into eyes that were Alex's but weren't at the same time. Instead he counted a few bobbing heads in the nearby shops, trying to focus on something much less complicated. "It's just, well, I'm pretty sure you're the only one around here who gives off a temperature of a hundred and fifteen; anyone with a pair of thermal goggles could probably figure out who you were, no matter _what_ you looked like."

Alex nodded slowly, fists in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He had a troubled look on his face – they both did. And try as he might, Desmond couldn't quite untwist that stubborn knot curled around his stomach. It was making him sick, standing and looking at Alex like he was confronting him, but, well, he didn't know what else to do.

"I guess that makes sense," Alex murmured, not sounding very convinced.

"I know I sound crazy –" Desmond started.

Alex interrupted him. "I never said you were crazy."

"Well, of course you wouldn't." Desmond wasn't sure if Alex could live with himself if he did. "Just… I don't know. I'm being paranoid. I've _been_ paranoid. And, hell, maybe it's nothing, just a by-product of staying here so long I can actually remember my address." He let himself smile at that – the idea that he actually had a home to go to after work, not just an apartment. Alex looked up at him, and Desmond expected him to smirk along with him. He didn't.

He just stood there; standing awkwardly in that body, trying to think of something else he could say.

"Did anyone…?" he breathed out, so quietly that Desmond could only just comprehend. Alex shook his head. "Nevermind." He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and glanced at the screen. "You're gonna be late," he more or less whispered, eyes glazing over. He hesitantly walked over to Desmond, offering the phone to him. "In case you need me," he said.

Desmond shook his head. "I won't." They both blinked. "I mean that I won't need the phone. It's –"

"You can trace phone signals," Alex said. "I know enough about that from Dana." He stared down at the piece of technology for a quick second. "…You sure?"

"I've survived this long without you." Alex slowly slipped the phone back to where it had come from, and once more there was a stretching, gray silence that draped over them both. Out of want for anything else to do, Desmond turned away from Alex again – though this time instead of inspecting the glowing store windows and the travelling people, he looked up.

For a moment, he wasn't in New York anymore.

He was back at his first home; the Farm, and he knew that he hated that place and those people and the life they wanted him to lead – he hated all of that. His memories were never shy about reminding him that running away had been the better alternative to staying there.

But right now he was remembering lying on the sturdy, wooden roofs with some other kids his age – their names and faces weren't important, and had slipped from his mind years ago. They would all look up and gaze at the expansive dome over their heads; they would look at the stars.

Desmond knew that the stars weren't the heavens; weren't gods that ascended there so long ago – they were just balls of gas, billions and billions of light years away. And there were trillions of them; there was the entire universe, just over his head.

It made him feel so incredibly insignificant.

Most people weren't a fan of feeling smaller than an ant; less important than a rock, but to be honest, Desmond had always sort of found that comforting. It told him that he wasn't special; he wasn't needed – so if he fucked up, who would care in the long run? If he ran away – if there was one more missing assassin, who would bat an eyelash five hundred years after the fact? Who would remember his name after he left?

That line of thought had been why he finally forced himself out of the commune – why he finally decided to leave. He had the stars to thank for that.

But there were no stars now; it was New York, not the mid-West. Here, it was a lot easier to just keep your eye level and only worry about building _yourself_ up – building someone _else_ up. For three months it hadn't been 'Desmond and the Universe', but simply 'Desmond _was_ the Universe'.

He finally turned his face back to Alex and realized that he missed those stars – just a little bit. He sent another wobbly smile Alex's way, and he felt just a little horrible, because that calming look had felt just a little too forced. At any rate, Alex seemed to either buy it, or he didn't care, and he only took another step forward and reached for Desmond's hand so that he could kiss him; quickly, discreetly, and they would both have a bit of a lingering touch to last until they saw each other again.

Desmond was almost leaning in, almost letting Alex's fingers wrap around his own, but then he heard a burst of laughter coming from somewhere down the street and he jumped. "I…" he blinked and saw another innocent pair – a man and woman, this time – walking towards them. "Sorry." He said lamely, and then he was backing away slowly, turning around, and walking away.

Alex's hands – or the hands that he had control of, at least – were still outreaching a bit, as if waiting for Desmond to turn around and come back to him.

He didn't of course, and eventually the couple who had scared Desmond had disappeared as well, and Alex was left to his own devices, under the street lamp, and under the invisible stars.

**xxxx**

Desmond felt a warmth curling in his belly. He slid back the sheets, settling under them until he had more or less made a nest out of the blankets. Somewhere far away in reality, Alex's voice carried through: "Can I ask you a question?" he spoke cautiously; he was still stretched out on top of the covers.

"Sure," Desmond said, not sounding very convinced in himself that he could answer anything besides maybe an, 'Are you tired?' to which the reply was a rather concrete; 'Fuck yeah I am.'

Alex pressed onwards anyway.

"You never actually went to school, did you?" Desmond looked at Alex then, frown sitting heavily on his face.

"…No." he said, and he remained quiet for a bit after that, as if the one word was all he was willing to conjure up. Then he breathed in a long, slow breath – one that usually served as a preface to a difficult round of words. "We… were taught, at the Farm." Alex bit his lip when he saw Desmond's face in the dim light go stormy at the name of his birthplace; he could feel the hatred and unsettled memories burn imprints into his tone. "Mostly it was how to live on the commune: Making clothes, building houses and shelters, cooking, that sort of thing. Sometimes they'd send us out into the surrounding woods for a few days… weeks. Survive or die and all that."

Alex paused, already feeling the guilt simmer inside of him. "But you never thought to leave then?"

Desmond snorted. "We always went in groups. If one of us was stupid enough to _want_ to leave," he twitched his fingers, and moved his hand up a few inches up off the mattress, signaling himself as such a person. "Well, we all had knives."

"Sounds like a cult," Alex said, shifting uncomfortably, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

"Pfft, yeah maybe. Wouldn't that be great? All the rituals and hierarchies might have made sense if they did it in the name of _God_."

"Atheist?"

"Aren't you?"

Alex moved his head to the side, then sat up a bit, resting his back against the headboard. "Well, never gave it much thought –" that wasn't true. He thought about life and morality and death and human nature enough to constitute a Masters in Philosophy. "…Just, why would a god let stuff like…" _me_ "…what's going on now, in Africa and up here happen?"

"Gods aren't perfect," Desmond said, rolling onto his stomach, changing his mind, and going back to his original position. Alex watched him shift for a bit. _Yes_, he wanted to say sardonically, smirk shining in some rather bitter hues, _I have enough power to rival a god and looked how _I_ turned out_. But he didn't, because then Desmond would stare up at him and chastise him, and tell him he was just as good as anything he had seen – or worse, he'd lie. He'd smile in masked sympathy and tell him he was perfect.

To Alex, the only perfect thing was Desmond. Desmond could have been with anyone else and he chose him – Desmond could have gone here and done this and said that but instead he was stretched out on Alex's bed in Alex's apartment right next to Alex himself.

So he kept quiet.

_Not all walls are meant to be torn down. Surprise surprise, a few should be kept on hand for things like foundation._

"Did you teach yourself to read then?"

"No. We were taught that. Reading and Science; Geography, History – though that one's quite a bit…" he paused, searching for an adequate word.

"-Different?" Alex tried when Desmond had apparently given up the mental word-hunt. "Conspiracy-filled, maybe?"

"Like a Dan Brown's wet dream level of conspiracy filled, yeah." They shared a moment of gentle chuckles at that, their minds already contemplating what was to be said next. "-Some Modern Technology stuff, too. Weapons and Politics mostly. Every few years some of us would leave for civilization, study, and come back to teach everybody else… Well, mostly the other adults. I might have… eavesdropped instead. Taken a few newspapers they saved and poured over those for a hundred sleepless nights or so."

Alex imagined a Desmond much younger than twenty-five stuffing papers under his pillow at night when someone checked up on him; trying especially hard to figure out the meaning to every word he came across – every foreign concept those papers would introduce him to – all without arousing notice from a tribe practically built on suspicion; so much so that the paranoia had sunk itself into Desmond, making him a jumpy, sweating mess that refused to even glance out the windows on certain days. The Bad Days, that's what the both of them called it. Alex could see those moments of a forgotten life abandoned so long ago, and he wasn't quite sure if he was allowed to be inquisitive about it; if it was inappropriate to want to know about those first sixteen years – especially when he was still so unwilling to reveal all the specific details of his own life's story. "Probably motivated you into leaving," he said lowly.

"Well, I knew I hated The Farm, I just didn't have too good of an idea of what else was out there. I would have run away no matter what, I'm sure. Just… go in one direction for long enough, and you're bound to end up _somewhere_."  
>Alex nodded – of course, he was stuck in Manhattan unless he could sneak on a boat or get government issued permission (So, really only the first option). And, except for that one eighteen month excursion between the death of James Heller and the revival of his sister, he rarely even thought about leaving. New York Zero was an odd idea of a cage, but it was in all intents and purposes, his home.<p>

His slowly dying, self destructing home.

"…What about languages?"

"_Me llamo es Desmond_," he said, laughing again. "Yeah, some rudimentary Latin, Hebrew, French… I mean, I can't _remember_ it, but I learnt it. At some point."

"Math?"

"Up till basic Algebra and Geometry. About a tenth grade education. My reading makes up for some of it, I guess, but I'm not exactly a well – versed member of a culturally poignant society. Or whatever. Except maybe in drinks, then I'm dapper as fuck." He paused, and rolled his head over to Alex. "Do I seem dumb to you?"

Alex blinked quickly; "What? –No! I wasn't trying to-"

"Well I _hope_ you weren't trying to," Desmond stared back up at the ceiling. "I mean, you can't really get anywhere now if you don't have a degree hanging up on a wall somewhere, right? Even _you_ went to Colombia."

Alex tried not to stiffen. "That was a long time ago."

"I know. I'm sorry. Things slip out sometimes." He sighed, stretching out his legs a bit.

"…How did you even know that?" Alex asked.

"Dana. We were talking, few days ago. We got bored waiting for you and we decided to go through all her stuff. Found _her_ degree – shoved somewhere in an old box, all folded up."

"Sounds like Dana. Anything else?"

Desmond felt a wave of uncertainty hit his chest. "Yeah." He whispered. "Some pictures." Alex looked down at Desmond, waiting for him to elaborate.

He said nothing.

"Anything important?" he heard Desmond swallow; he was twitching again.

"The name… Karen Parker – does that ring a bell for you?" he asked, cautiously waiting for a response.

If any of the night's passing silences had been awkward, well… there probably wasn't even a _word_ to properly describe this one. From Desmond's low point of view, he watched as something almost – but not quite – resembling horror crossed Alex's face. He had the image of the other man slowly slipping away, off a platform, and trying so very desperately to keep himself afloat.

Maybe he should have backed out, retracted a bit before Alex got even more bothered, but he didn't do anything like that. Desmond knew, in the worst kind of way, that he was curious.

_Fair's fair. _

"…I saw a picture of you and her," Desmond said quietly. "I wasn't sure who she…"

"I'm sure you had some sort of idea," Alex said in a low, grating voice. "And you think _I _get jealous?" Desmond pursed his lips.

"It's not jealously. I just… wanted to know what she was to you." He paused. "To the human Mercer, even. The picture was old." He moved and touched his hand to Alex's cheek, guiding his face in a way as if to inspect it. "You looked different."

"Better, right?"

"Dead. More dead than normal. And kind of a douche. I like _you_ much better – I think we've been over this before." He sighed, and took his hand away, settling back on the mattress. "You make yourself age?" he asked.

"A bit. It seems… right, to do that." Alex's mind was still on the blonde girl in the picture. _That_ picture – the one that had been hanging up in his human self's apartment.

Actually, it was almost funny, in a gut twisting, horrific way; showing that there hadn't been enough time for tragedy to leech from the particular situation: Karen could have been right next to him right now, in some other world; and Desmond would be either long gone, or just long dead, murdered in an alley street sometime in February. But instead she had tried to kill him, and he –

"The difference between twenty-eight and thirty-one aren't exactly leaps and bounds apart, you know." Desmond's words rang out and nearly startled Alex into moving.

"You noticed, though." Karen had noticed. She knew before anyone else – she could have at least _told_ him, and that was one of the things that he always thought. She could have slipped him a sign, given a warning, _something_, just so that maybe, _maybe_ he wouldn't have had to find the answers himself.

He could have gone on living without really knowing how the Outbreak happened. He could just _know_, and accept that he was not human, and build from there. Did he need to know anything else?

"What happened to her?" Desmond asked. Alex closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered. It _didn't_ matter. It would have been easier, if he didn't know how involved he was – as a human and as the Blacklight Virus. Maybe then he wouldn't feel like the guilt and regret were going to topple him over. Maybe he would have been able to blend in by now. "She's gone, anyway."

"Gone? What kind of gone?" Alex twisted his hands in the sheets, feeling out the corners and threads of his memory – Karen's rushed steps into the elevator, the gasping, anxious tremors in her voice – He's in the building! – _He's in the building_!

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, again, trying to shake himself free, even as he sank deeper and deeper in that illusion – well, no. It wasn't strictly an illusion because it had _happened_ – this wasn't fake; not like his dream, and he wasn't totally sure which one would end up being worse. But no, no; it _was_ funny; actually, she knew what he was before anyone else. _She knew he wasn't alive anymore and then she tried to-_

"What do you mean _gone_, Alex?" Desmond was asking, urgently moving to sit up, as he grabbed for one of his arms. "Gone like she _left_, or gone like she's-"

"_It doesn't matter!_"

_-How can you kill something that's dead?_

Alex was dimly aware that he was shouting and twisting his body with harsh speed until he had pinned Desmond to the bed, leering over him, hands up on the wooden post behind the other's head. His eyes were glaring down but he wasn't seeing anything but red – and then, and then he could only see those wide eyes – _her eyes_ – he thought in an animalistic way; in an over-bearing, dizzying manner that drowned him in its powerful essence. He was feeding off of something that defied reason, rationality, and intelligence. For a numbing moment he blacked out as he was pulled and twisted back into the past, back to the last time he saw Karen Parker, surrounded by metal. Surrounded by him. He could taste the blood in his mouth. He could see her face stretched out in horror as she – as _he_…

Alex blinked and the dark steel of the elevator slowly dissolved. He realized that Desmond was trapped under him, not blinking and not moving. He half expected him to be dead; chest cut open, bleeding into the sheets as he cried out '_why, why, why?_' with the last exhale of his lungs, but no – _no_ – he hadn't lashed out enough to do that, had he? Those seconds were blurry visions of uncontrolled strength – not quite a nightmare, as it turned out, but close.

"Oh God," he heard himself say. He leaned farther over Desmond, gaining proximity to stare. "I'm sorry," he was whispering through his teeth. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean – " he breathed and slowly made a motion to get as far away from the other man as possible, but as he slid his hands from the headboard Desmond grasped his shoulders.

"Alex," he whispered, staring up at him. "Why-"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Alex said again, out of want for other words.

"It's okay," Desmond said quietly. "You didn't do anything," _this time_. The implication hung in the air, and he turned and looked at Desmond's hand from the corner of his eyes. The gauze scratched against his skin; it sat like the old skin of a snake, discolored and loose.

"I'm sorry," Alex said again, still staring at the hand. Why was it taking so long for that to heal? He wasn't sure which was worse; seeing the bandages wrapped around Desmond's palm or intentionally staring at the raised, half-crescent scars that Alex had made with his own fingers. He wished Desmond would just push him _away_, already – wished he would react normally; cold and expectant of an apology, not open and staring and certainly not doing what he was; sliding against the headboard and propping himself up on a lone, unstable elbow to – _damnit_. To kiss him. Desmond was kissing him. Forgiving him.

"You're saying that a lot," Desmond whispered gently, finding just enough balance to touch his fingers to Alex's neck, back, stomach, that spot right behind his ear, as if he was performing a First Aid Check Session: Does this hurt? Does _this_ hurt?

Finally Alex found some new words to use. "…Not sure what else to say." He tried to move away again but Desmond nudged him back into place. He seemed perfectly comfortable where he was, putting his hands all over Alex as he was more or less straddled. Disgust sat on Alex's tongue, thick as paint, and he tried to figure out why Desmond wasn't already out of the room, out the door, out of his life by now. "Why weren't you scared?" he said.

"What made you think I wasn't?"

"You didn't move – didn't try to run away."

"I'm _tired_- and I think you've made me use enough of my adrenaline tonight. All spent, now."

"…I could have killed you." Desmond paused for a moment.

"Well, I guess some couples risk STDs, others risk pregnancy, and we have that." Alex gave him a sharp look.

"I'm being serious."

"So am I." he connected his arms together, so they snared around Alex's back.

"Do you know how _easy_ it would be?" Alex asked, arching his back up again to look more directly in Desmond's face. "Do you know how much I have to remind myself not to press too hard – not to accidentally _throw_ you across the room?"

Desmond raised his brows. "Alex, if you wanted, any small part of you, wanted to kill me, don't you think I'd be _dead_ by now?"

"That's horrible reasoning. You shouldn't just be – here. Taking this."

"All you did was look scary for a few seconds. People have done way worse things to me." He smiled at that, but it wasn't joyful, and it wasn't directed at Alex, anyway.

"But what could I have done if it lasted longer than a few seconds? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"I don't know – do you understand what _I'm_ trying to tell _you_?" Alex blinked. "Because right now I'm trying to tell you that everything is okay. You've told me that you want to help people – you want to be good, accepted, you don't want to be considered a monster anymore because, well, you _aren't_." he laid back down, arms sprawled out on his sides as if to display himself. "Well, this is what happens when someone believes that – they stick around, forgive you, even when it'd be easier to go." Desmond moved his bandaged hand under Alex's chin, keeping their eye contact. "Remember that, okay? That's what you're fighting for." He smiled – a real smile, and Desmond realized that it was a lot easier to be happy with Alex when other people weren't around, making his ears buzz and his eyes flick wildly about. Alex certainly thought the same way – wishing everyone else in the world would disappear so he could enjoy just being with Desmond – and it was okay to indulge in that sort of thing.

_For a little while_, Desmond reminded himself. _Get caught up in a dream too long and you end up stuffing lotus flowers into your mouth, hoping to never really wake up._

Alex was finally able to exert some movement, and so he kneeled on the tips of his knees and the balls of his feet, trying to not crush Desmond's legs. He took the other's injured hand and stared at it for a long while. "What about this?" he whispered. "I did this to you."

"Your nightmares did this to me," Desmond said. "It's not that bad."

"No? Then why did it hang like a dead weight for half a week?" Desmond rolled his eyes and tugged his hand away. He stared at the bandages and found where he had tied them off that morning. Slowly, he began to undo the square knot he had sealed the wrappings with and he began to unravel himself.

"One time I broke my arm trying to get away from some guard dogs." Desmond offered. "They got my prints and everything, but I got out of the holding cell about three hours after."

"And your arm?"

"I knew somebody who knew somebody. It wasn't too bad; it got better in about three months. Blew through my savings – that wasn't a fun time." He pointed out a small, white knick on his right forearm. "And now that's all that's left. A centimeter long scar and a five second story." Desmond offered up his left hand again to Alex, who took it after a moment of hesitation into his own palms. He let his fingers brush the raised flesh and pink lines over the back of his hands; felt the short smoothness of his nail bed, the even coarseness of worn, dark palms. "Pretty soon that's all that'll be left on here," Desmond said. "You see?"

"I…" Alex looked at Desmond's face; trusting and compassionate and he nodded slowly. "I do. I think I do." Alex felt himself smile, and he pressed his lips to Desmond's knuckles. Desmond felt another soft wave of heat bubble up from the soft contact. The other sighed then; eyes flicking back up to Desmond's face. "This is stupid," he muttered. "But… earlier, outside, when you told me to go I thought-"

"-I was getting tired of you?" Alex didn't say anything. But then again, Alex didn't need to. "You know that I would be gone if I got tired of you. And I'm still here, aren't I?" Alex squeezed Desmond's hand a little tighter, because he _was_ there. "If I could stay here forever, I would. And if you ever think that I'm pushing you away, little by little – waning you off of me – well, I'm not. I'm just trying to stretch out time as much as I can for us."

There was something beautifully painful in Desmond's words, and then Alex said, "How did I meet somebody like you?"

Desmond shrugged, still grinning, still letting Alex hold onto him. "I don't know, got lucky, I guess."

"And you?"

"Oh, you know, reaping the benefits and all that."

"Benefits? You would call them benefits?"

"Shush," Desmond moved his free arm around the back of Alex's head and tugged him down for a kiss. "Let me be happy for about two seconds before you ruin it with your mouth."

"You were using my mouth just now and seemed to be having a pretty good time with it." He whispered, intertwining Desmond's injured hand with his own for another few moments of silence. At some point he heard Desmond's toes wriggling under the covers and he gradually slid off of Desmond. He retreated to his side of the bed, still a little worried to press himself up against the other in case… that… happened again.

But Desmond inched closer anyway. One arm went around Alex's waist – "Remember what I said," he murmured into his neck, and then he closed his eyes.

**xxxx**

Some time long, long after Desmond had fallen asleep, and before the sun had really made an effort to rise, Alex touched his fingers to the other's face, recalling the words – the idea that people were noticing him; appreciating his efforts; liking him, even. There was the optimistic eventuality that maybe, one day, there would be people who accepted him and forgave him like Desmond did; and that made him feel nearly elated, and sort of like he wanted to go out and find others to help, just so –

Alex glanced down and pressed his lips to Desmond's forehead.

_Just so the feeling Desmond gave him wouldn't totally disappear one day._

**xxxx**

**A/N: I'm – hopefully – not the biggest self-promoter in the world, but I got a Tumblr – the link is in my profile – and I'll probably be posting some extra ProtoCreed stuff there, so feel free to check it out.**


	16. Part XVI: Dropping Bridges

An alarm was going off.

"What's that for?" A woman asked, craning her neck to stare at her neighbor's computer screen. A few others in the office space paused for fractions of a second – there was a temporary lull in typing; the chittering between the workers, and the responses being made through telephones.

"We got a match," the man replied, smug and nonchalant. He clicked through the numerous open programs on his monitor – constantly in the state of updating information and attempting to draw conclusions with data tables and code. He found the source of the noise and began reading off the alert: "…The Department of Motor Vehicles for New York," he said, looking through a grid of names and numbers. "Someone named… Thomas Morrison just got a motorcycle license." He displayed a thumbnail of what was presumed to be the young man in question. "He has the same fingerprints as a missing person." A Missing Person, of course, meant different things in the Abstergo Corporation than anywhere else in the world.

"An assassin?" the woman whispered excitedly.

"They match the fugitive formerly known as Desmond Miles," he noted. "I'm sending this in. The managers will be interested."

"_Just_ interested?" she shot back, leaning in closer to inspect the wanted man's face. "It says he was born Off the Grid. No birth certificate-"

"-Or social security number."

"…How do we even have his finger prints?"

"Hm," he scrolled through the pieces of information. "Said he was arrested back in 2001 for property damage." He smirked. "Couldn't get control of his free-running, I bet. They got his prints, put him in a holding cell, and by the next morning he had managed to knock out two of the officers on duty and escape out of a skylight."

"From fourteen feet up." The woman finished, finding the sentence her co-worker had been reading. "Huh." They both blinked, reluctantly impressed with the report. They quickly patted down their shoulders and pants; smoothing invisible ruffles in a subconscious effort to maintain a vision of perfection. "Of course that won't really matter now," she continued, watching as the necessary files were slowly uploaded as an attachment and dumped into an e-mail.

"By tomorrow we'll have every toll booth and security camera looking for his license plate."

"And by now?"

"There are plenty of contacts that can find him," he smirked. "I know a man who lives up there; he files reports to me. He sent me notes on some woman who made a call into those Civilian Watch Lines we set up a few months back; something about a suspect; _this_ suspect, if we're lucky – 'course she didn't know anything about us and she probably fancied _him_ a private investigator. I'll get him on the phone, _he'll_ get someone on the phone – we'll get her name and help by lunch." The two of them smiled encouragingly at one another, enjoying another small victory before turning back to their respective stations.

The clacking and hum of technology emerged at full force once again.

**xxxx**

Desmond pulled into one of the empty parking spaces and cut the engine, listening as the noise slowly dissipated into the air. He didn't wear a helmet today, and the wind had whipped past his face until his nose began to run and his ears had turned pink. He leaned his elbows on the handle bars, rested his face into his hands, and let out a very long sigh.

He was having one of those days. '_Those days_' meant a few things: Irritability, getting so jumpy that he could have been confused for a guy who accidentally murdered his wife and, well, he didn't wear his helmet. It was a bit harder to see out of the tinted visor, and his range of vision was undoubtedly smaller. Even by just a few degrees, some inches – it didn't matter to him. On days like this, Desmond kept himself on alert.

He swung off the bike; still shiny, still new. He dumped the keys into his pockets and began walking down the levels of the parking garage. He rode to and from work, now. Less waiting around and less time spent in a cramped subway car – it felt better to him. The car population was getting smaller all the time; it was easier and easier to weave in and out of traffic; though Desmond personally liked to think that was because he was only getting better at riding his bike.

Ducking out of the parking garage, he swayed to the right, down the street. He only had a handful of blocks to go before he reached _Vodka_ and his eight hour shift started. Well, the prep work started, at least; the bar didn't open until it was dark.

_Dark of course being a relative term_, Desmond thought, wrinkling his nose as he observed the streetlamps on at full power against the midnight blue of the sky.

It wasn't even seven at night and already he felt like the entire day had been drained. And it was only, what? August _23__rd_? The sun had been setting an hour earlier than it should have been for months now, and meteorologists weren't exactly sure why. Desmond could have snorted – now was the time to pull out all that End of The World Crap, huh? All he knew for sure was that winter was going to be a bitch at this rate – more so than usual.

And sure, things weren't exactly going great; here or… well, _anywhere_ else, but people probably thought the planet was going to explode when Black Tuesday hit, too. Or World War One… Or the Outbreak; _both_ of them. Everyone just had to ride it out. Or leave. Desmond knew he was way better at the second option.

Out on the open street, there was a chill that settled with the darkening sky. Desmond slowly furrowed his eyebrows in thought, as if coming across a string of words he had heard but for the life of him just did not _know_. There was something off – a little shutter in the typical order of things – almost - and as he moved through the crowds and got ever closer to his destination, he attempted to run through a mental diagnosis of what could have been wrong. Everything looked fine; everything felt fine; and everything sounded fine: Cars honked, people chattered; footsteps went off in the distance as he steadily passed others by.

Except for one.

One small set of shoes were clacking on the pavement behind him. Had been for at least a block.

Someone was following him – unless they weren't; unless he was being delusional like Alex said he was. Oh _God_, wouldn't that be _easy_? _Okay, okay_, he was thinking, feeling his palms sweat – there was a cross walk up ahead. All he had to do was wait for the signal and slowly, _slowly_ turn his head around and see who had been on his ass for the last quarter of a mile. Breathe, just _breathe_ – _you aren't going to get stabbed in broad…well, early evening_.

Shit, he was panicking now.

He felt uncomfortable in his suit as he paused on the street in between the dozen other commuters. All he had to do was just, look. Just move to the side a bit and…

"Cynthia?" he said, voice approaching the edge of cracking. He coughed, watching her slowly turn her gaze towards him, as if meeting him there was a total coincidence.

"Oh, hello Jonathan." Desmond blinked. Jonathan? He blinked again and realized that Cynthia didn't actually know who he was. Well, did anyone? Except Alex, at least. She stared him down with those dark hawk eyes of hers. Her hair was still tied up high on her head in a tight knot that should have hurt. She was still all in black. The only possible hint of a change was that she looked a bit older than the last time Desmond had seen her – times weren't exactly 'easy' right now, and even he looked tired nowadays. Felt tired, too – of certain things, of everything. The walkers began moving around them, gently nudging them into the road as they avoided bumping their shoulders. Ever so slowly, Desmond unstuck himself from his spot on the concrete and moved down the white marked lines on the road. Cynthia followed. She was out of sight again, but he heard her footsteps.

When they reached the other side of the street, he gave another quick glance back to her, just to make sure that he really wasn't in some messed up hallucination. But no, his former boss was still there, still walking, not taking her eyes off of him. He suppressed a shutter, and instead asked, "How did you find me?"

She furrowed her eyebrows. "I didn't find you, Jon. I was just… in the right place at the right time. I thought I saw you when I was walking out of the store."

"Which store?"

She pointed behind her. "Just one of those corner stores. I don't know the name. I was looking for laundry detergent." Desmond swallowed.

"Well, where is it?"

"They didn't have it," she answered coolly, shrugging as if to portray a 'what can you do?' gesture.

"A store that doesn't have detergent?"

"Not the type I want. Relax," she put a warm hand on his shoulder, and he tried not to stumble as he moved. "I'm not stalking you or anything," she let out a good natured chuckle; something Desmond had never heard her do, not in the handful of months he had worked at _Mkinely's._ "So, how are _you_?"

The easiness of the statement almost sent Desmond through a loop. "I'm… well," he said, voice sounding particularly far away, as if it belonged to someone down the street and he just managed to pick it out.

"Still hanging around with Alex?" Well, at least that was normal. An expected line of questioning, at least. Even now the bitterness burned through her words; Cynthia had never really bothered to hide her distaste for Alex – Desmond, for obvious reasons, never mentioned the dozens of comments she would throw his way when no one else was around. Especially not to Alex. Her excuses were vague and he had decided a long time ago that he would be the last person to simply follow an idea with blind faith because he had been told to. At first he had even figured that the two of them had dated at some point; of course, now that line of reasoning seemed like something inconceivable, and possibly worth a good maiming if he were to accuse either of the two of that.

Now, months removed from that introspection, he knew what she had been trying to get at; thinking that Alex was still a predator in the way that Zeus was: Cold and indifferent to human life; hiding in fake skin; waiting, _waiting_ for someone to wander in close enough into its jaws… He couldn't really blame Cynthia for that, he supposed, but it irked him a million times more than it had in the winter; his relationship with Alex that much deeper; that much firmer and rooted into the dirt.

"…Yeah," he breathed out finally. Cynthia made an interesting noise in the back of her throat, and he pushed down the urge to run – he suddenly felt caught between getting the hell out of Cynthia's sight and not alerting anyone else who might have been on the lookout for him. He never thought Cynthia was a spy – but, well, _They_ were Everywhere. As it stood he kept on holding his breath, waiting to hear the clink of a gun or the breath of another rolling down the back of his neck. He had to wonder if the whole coincidence he was caught in now had been planned – a day, a month, since he had arrived in winter? Perhaps Cynthia had been tracking him, watching him – maybe there were those dependent on her for information.

But, _why make a move now?_ he had to ask. Why not when he first started working at _Mkinely's_? Why not before he had Alex at his side, Alex, who was willing to go to Hell and back to keep him safe?

Desmond knew he was going to have to swallow down his fear, his trepidation – just for a few minutes. He'd get to _Vodka_ and borrow Tim's cell phone. Call Alex – they wouldn't be tracking his goddamn co-workers _too_, would they?

They. Who was _They_ again? Or would it have just been easier to mean Everyone when he thought of that horrid, four-letter word?

Well, Cynthia had been his co-worker. Once. He squinted at her, as if maybe he could figure everything out if he stared long enough. It didn't seem to be working, obviously, so he started talking again. "How's Tabitha?" he asked, hoping to drag the conversation as far away from home territory as he could. Cynthia sucked on her teeth for a moment.

"Don't know. She moved out in April, after her boyfriend went missing."

"I'm sorry."

"Psh, feel sorry for her _boyfriend_ – they say he vanished, but everyone vanishes every now and again."

"I guess." Desmond said, watching as a small alleyway appeared in between the buildings up ahead. He was attempting to distance himself from anything that would make him conspicuous – like paying attention to Cynthia. He always made a point to not get too incredibly angry at others – it was just easier to sit and take it, or better yet, leave – than get arrested for Disturbing the Peace or extensive Property Damage; those weren't exactly his idea of a fun time. But every time Cynthia opened her mouth, he was torn between leaving and forcibly shutting her up.

And _Jesus_, was that second option really appealing to him right now. In fact, she didn't even have to say anything – it wasn't fair, he had been so happy before other people got involved. He was always happier before anyone else got involved, actually.

Apparently not liking Desmond's lack of reaction, Cynthia spoke up again: "_I_ think it ran a bit deeper than that. Bet he just turned into a pile of blood in Central Park. A bit of bone marrow stuck in someone's teeth." She spoke slowly, giving Desmond an accusing side glance.

"What're you –"

"Of course," she continued in an oblivious way, "He _was_ a Rugby guy for MC."

"MC?" Desmond repeated back.

"Manhattan College; so he always ran around the Park at night for practice. It can get pretty dangerous out there." Her eyes turned cruel in an obvious way, now. Her voice lowered into a hiss, again, directed at him instead of the street and civilians. "I mean, It has to feed somehow."

Desmond's body struggled to catch up with his mind. A split second later, his face flushed angrily, and his mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. "Care to repeat that?" he shot back, veins in his arms popping as he jerked forward in a challenging way.

"You heard me," Cynthia said, ducking past Desmond and into the alley he had spotted before. She wasn't done speaking – and now, neither was he. He had been able to tolerate the typical grit of her words; the snake-like way she moved about; but suddenly she made it personal. And he wasn't used to personal – the idea of someone having enough knowledge of him to just crack him open; expose vices and harbored thoughts – you know, like Cynthia what was doing to him now? He didn't like it. At all. And as she pressed back into dead end of the road Desmond thought for a moment that he could have been walking right into a trap.

But he was a little too angry to be rational about it – to be afraid anymore.

"You… You're _lying_." He ground out, leering at his former boss. That poke she sent towards Alex – to what Alex was trying to be – made everything but basic instinct roll over and go quiet. "He would _never_-"

"-What about those guys in the alley?" she persisted, even as all the energy Desmond had shown quickly vanished, and his body slowly drained itself of color until he resembled something more akin to an alabaster statue than a person. "What about everyone Zeus killed during the Outbreak? All those people? You can't tell me that _thing_ hasn't murdered – you can't tell me it's _human_." Desmond winced at that, unwilling to move or talk again as the phantom sights of blood danced behind his eyes. But still, he wasn't immune to a slow-building rage that kindled itself as Cynthia spoke up.

"Zeus is dangerous – to you, to everyone," for a moment she almost looked sympathetic as she continued. "I told you, back at _Mkinley's_, to avoid him – I was only trying to protect you from that… that… disgusting _thing_ that's taken an interest in you."

"He's not though," Desmond muttered, and it was only chance that Cynthia heard it too. "He's not; he –"

"_He's_ what, Desmond?" Cynthia spat out impatiently, using the pronoun in a mocking way. Her voice rose as she continued, her body inching forward as she asked, _begged_ for someone to challenge her words. "What were you going to say? Is _It_ nice? Is _It_ good? Is _It_ a plague on humanity? Is _It_ a monster? Well, what is _It_?" Desmond opened his mouth, trying to find those elusive, convincing words before he realized that it wouldn't matter. Cynthia didn't care about Alex. She didn't _see_ Alex – she saw Zeus. A monster. A murderer. An… _It_. There was a hatred in her eyes so deeply set it was a surprise that he hadn't noticed it before. And it was burning, burning into him so much and it wouldn't _stop_; it spread to him like wild fire and he gritted his teeth, feeling a little bit more of himself slip away and he knew he couldn't prevent that feeling.

Not anymore.

With similar loathing flashing across his maddened face he closed the gap between them; slamming his fist as hard as his anger would let him right into Cynthia's jaw.

She fell to the side with a surprised grunt; her body scratched against the pavement, and for a minute Desmond's vision went red, and he lusted to hit her again. He wanted to make her bleed. He wanted - every Templar, every bastard who mocked him, every goddamn bigot who mocked Alex, and every _single_ fucking reason why he could just never be happy to – _die_.

For that moment he saw all of those things in Cynthia, and he wanted to kill her. Had to kill her, and he stood over her, fists crunched up into white balls as his conscience struggled for control that his rage would not give up.

"He is not a _thing_." Desmond yelled, not caring who saw him, not caring who heard; not particularly caring about much, anymore. "His name is Alex. James. _Mercer_. Not Zeus. Not Virus. Not – Monster." He leaned down slightly, glaring shards into Cynthia's lanky body. She didn't move. Didn't even twitch. She could have been dead but still Desmond kept talking: "And not an _It_. Do you understand that, Cynthia? We don't need your help."

And then something rushed out of him at the words. He stopped himself, quickly setting his thoughts back into order, letting a refreshingly stony mask envelope him. It became easier to move, to breath. And he felt as if he had run for hours, and – and – there was only exhaustion, now. No room for regret.

He straightened up, still panting as the last of his anger faded from him. "_I_ don't need you anymore. I never did. I never needed anyone – not for protection, not for safety, not for love, not for anything."

He stared up at the brick wall as if addressing multiple people at once: "Stop thinking that I will die unless you help me."

Cynthia shifted, tried to sit up, and Desmond backed away a few more feet, listening to his heart hammer away in his chest, trying to hear beyond that – wondering if there were sirens out there, meant for him. "Don't try to find me again, Cynthia." He warned, staving off the panic, anxiety, and worry that he had. He was tired. He was always tired, of some things – everything – hadn't he said that already? His mind went in circles as he stared down at the pavement, already starting to shuffle his feet in a circle when he cast one more look over at the woman.

She was on her knees now, just as Desmond was turning to walk away. "I don't have to," Cynthia supplied, touching her face – that had hurt, but it wasn't just Desmond's wrath that kept her on the ground for so long; that glare she had gotten – his murderous look – was what kept her frozen to the spot and unwilling to even breathe. But now that was gone, and he was only looking at her from the corner of his vision. So she spoke again: "They already found you."

Desmond paused. "…Me?" he whispered, still not turning all the way around.

"They know all about you – about… _Him_," she shuttered at the word. "They can _help_ you, Jonathan." She began standing up, oblivious to the thoughts racing through Desmond's head. "They're going to take you away from that… person. Make sure it's destroyed for good so it never harms anything again. Just think what they can do to help us – to help _you_, Jonathan – _Jonathan!_" There was a crunch of loose gravel as Desmond hauled himself forward – running as fast as he could from the alley, from Cynthia – from 'Jonathan' and work and normalcy and everything he had tried so hard to keep up in this city.

Those things didn't matter now, he knew. That pretense of fitting in. It never mattered much in the end. It was the end right now, and so he just had to… go. Somewhere. Anywhere. He wasn't so sure where at the moment but it would come to him in time – it always did.

He heard the horns blaring and the people talking and his strained breathing coming in all at once; making split second halts as his feet slammed onto the concrete and everything but sheer, mind numbing panic was blocked out. And with every flurried step he was shedding himself – letting those small bits of life and peace flutter behind him. Happiness and home and summer heat and long fingers reaching out to him – those did not keep him safe. Life was the enemy, and he was constantly stuck fighting against it, hiding in its shadow everywhere he went.

For a while, he forgot, and he had roamed out into something significant – and now he was paying for it. For tasting that Forbidden piece of Paradise. But, God, the sun had never been brighter! The grass had never been greener, and he had never felt more in love with everything than when he forgot. He had been so stupid! But, but, being dumb was _easy_.

And yet, and yet, he was running away from perfection.

And all through that – _all through that_, he only had one thought on his mind:

_They already found you_

_ They already found you_

_ They already found you_

_ They already found – _me_._

**xxxx**

**A/N: This did not want to be a long chapter. 'Long' by my standards, at least.**


	17. Part XVII: Hell

**Part XVII: Hell**

When Alex opened the apartment door, he knew he wasn't alone. "Desmond?" he asked, catching a scent. Pheromones and chemicals: The remnants of sweat and motor oil and aftershave molded together into something undetectable to anyone but Alex, so that when he switched on the lights, he wasn't surprised to see Desmond sitting on the couch.

Puzzlement, however, still remained. "You're out of work early," Alex supplied, walking over to him. It was barely nine o' clock. "Were you trying to scare me or is there a better reason to be alone in the dark?" Desmond had evidently changed out of his work uniform, slipping on jeans, sneakers, and donning his white jacket.

There was a backpack, sitting on the floor to his side.

"Desmond?" Alex repeated, not quite settling into a panic. Still, he practically sighed in relief when Desmond stood, met his eyes for a moment, and kissed him.

There was something there: Impassionate urgency, and that made their kiss feel robotic and manufactured. Alex held Desmond by the waist, pressing gently. A few moments later and Desmond was pressing harder, planting one hand on Alex's back, the other cupping his face and touching dark hair. Trying to feel; trying to find something that Alex wasn't sure he could give.

But still. _That was more like it_, Alex thought. Tired to think. He learned a long time ago that it was better to just not think about anything when he kissed Desmond, touched Desmond – or if Desmond did any of that to him. No, it was a lot more enjoyable to just _feel_ this sort of thing – the close bodies and hot mouths and roaming fingers – and for once, his brain actually listened to him and kept quiet until they both had to breathe again.

Just when he was beginning to move his hands around Desmond's hips, pushing his shirt up inch by tantalizing inch, Desmond pulled away with no warning.

He still hadn't said anything, and even now he was wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, looking away in what was a tossup between shame, regret, and anxiety.

"I have to go," he said, and the words dropped down on Alex so quickly he wasn't quite sure he had heard it right.

"What?"

"They found me. Templars. Someone. They know about me and they know about us and…" his shoulders sagged. "I'm leaving. I should have been gone hours ago but – I… I wanted to say goodbye." Desmond gazed at Alex for another stretch of time, and Alex wondered how Desmond could look into the face of a drowning man so calmly.

"You're…" Alex blinked and creased his eyebrows, trying to remember how to take in air and talk at the same time. "…Going? Just like that?" He didn't notice the accusation planted in his words until Desmond winced at them.

"It's not like I _want_ to. I told you – if I had the choice, I would never leave you." He glanced to the right of him and hauled up his backpack by one of the straps, slinging it over his shoulder. "But I don't have that choice." Desmond took two steps back – towards the door – until Alex moved forward and grabbed a hold of his arm. Desmond sagged even more then, looking desperate and sad and Alex would have done anything in that moment to just make the hurt look go away. "Alex," Desmond murmured. "Come on, let me go."

"No." he said with a tone of finality – as if he had to think about it. "No – I can't."

Desmond turned away from him again, staring at the door. "You said you wouldn't make me stay," he murmured, and Alex could remember that day – he could remember all of their days in a flash of time that spanned not even a second – and instead of cringing and clutching his skull, he had to resist the urge to smile; and this time when he snapped back to the present, he had a hard time convincing himself that he wanted to.

Everything hurt a lot less, back then. And that was a sentence he'd never thought would be true for him, so he closed the gap between the both of them and embraced Desmond again. There was no kissing this time – and this time, Desmond didn't bother touching back. He just stood there as Alex placed a chin on his shoulder, like he was waiting for Alex to hurry up and be done with it so he could _leave_.

"I said that a long time ago," Alex replied; voice scratchy and muffled against the jacket he was talking into. He kept on inhaling the scent that lay there, and if that was a distraction or simply because he wanted to _remember_, he couldn't tell. "Before I got attached. Before I thought…" he paused and let out a wet laugh. He sniffed. Desmond still hadn't moved. "Before I knew I couldn't live without you."

"Don't say that." Desmond whispered harshly.

"It's true."

"No. No it isn't true," he thrashed left and right until he had enough room to push himself out of Alex's grasp. He backed up again. "Don't you ever say that. Don't you ever _think_ that because – because you _don't_ need me. You don't need anyone. I can't stay here – I can't do anything; but _you_ can."

"Not without you," Alex said back, too empty to feel some sense of shame as he let himself unravel in front of the other man. "You're the reason I can change – have changed."

"I haven't done anything to you," Desmond said, eyes set in a glare, as if Alex had thrown blame upon him. "Not anything you couldn't have done yourself." He took another step back, and Alex wondered if Desmond was just going to break out into a run but – he stayed put, staring, satchel still slung over his back. Alex noticed for the first time that Desmond had shaved his head, just enough to leave it closely cropped so that there was no blonde showing anymore. "So just…"

"It's not fair," Alex said abruptly, feeling a surge of energy heighten his senses again. "I said I would help you – protect you; and I can't even-"

"-Stop talking like it's your fault," Desmond said sullenly, but Alex continued on anyway.

"I can do it. I can track the Templars – these… people. I can find them." Their gaze met for a moment; brown on blue. "And I can kill them." Alex's eyes glowed in the darkness of the room as he said that. "I will kill anyone that tries to take you away from me – I… will protect you." There was a crackling silence between the both of them.

"No." Desmond said again. "I'm not going to let you kill anyone because of me."

"But they're hunting you! They-"

"I know what they've done Alex, thank-you," he said callously. "But I'm not going to just sit on a throne somewhere while you run off and get rid of anyone who sneezes in my direction. People _like_ you, now! They're starting to, anyway." He stuck a hand in his pocket and stared past Alex, at the large window on the other side of the room; the one covered by deep, thick curtains. "Are you really going to become a monster for one stupid person?"

"Yes." Alex replied with no pretense of hesitation, no concept of thought, and Desmond could only groan back at him.

"Stop that! Stop… stop thinking that I'm important – I'm not! I'm really, really not. You could be saying this to any other runaway, you know. If you met them instead of me, and it wouldn't have made a difference."

"But you are important – to me at least." Desmond was shaking his head, as if he didn't believe him – didn't want to believe him. And Alex kept on talking because indecision was the only hope he could cling to, now: "With you, I'm… happy. With you, I feel like I'm normal, like I'm human-"

"But you're not a fucking human, Alex! This is what I've been trying to say. I don't matter – but you keep on putting me on a goddamn pedestal; you keep thinking that I can fix you – that I can snap my fingers and make everything easy?" he barked out a laugh at that: "Fuck, I can't even do that to myself – much less the both of us. I would love to stop running – I would love that more than anything else in the world – but I can't. Because this is how I've kept myself safe for nine years. And I don't need you to keep me safe, Alex. I don't need anyone but myself – and you don't need me either, alright? And maybe you realize this, maybe you don't, but I'm not sticking around."

"…You're not?"

Desmond shook his head, coming down from his rant. "I can't."

Alex paced towards Desmond again. "So, this is it, then? You're going to quit – just like that."

"Well, that's a good way of putting it." Desmond settled a dark glare on Alex.

"You can't just run away from everything, Desmond."

"Why? It seems to have worked well for the both of us so far." He clenched his teeth for a moment before continuing, as if holding back what he was about to say: "Besides, it's better than _your_ method of murdering everyone."

"If it worked," Alex replied.

"How well did it work for Dana?" Desmond spat back – and then they both froze, realizing that they hit on a peculiar nerve. Alex reacted first, throwing his shoulders back in that hilariously humanoid manner of making oneself look threatening; Desmond could feel the pulses of heat come off his body; he could practically see the crackle of power discharging into the air.

_"What did you say?"_

"You said that you would protect _her_, right? Back then? Well, how long was she in that coma, Alex? Two years? More? At least my method keeps me _conscious_."

Desmond's skin prickled even before Alex reached out and grasped ruthlessly at his arm. This time it wasn't pleading – it just _hurt_. But Desmond was too angry to think that this was a bad idea – that making Alex mad was just asking for some form of tragedy – because he knew he was going to leave tonight. And if that meant burning bridges, well - "Let me go." He hissed out, not even trying to break free.

"Take it back," Alex whispered in a threatening way. Empty or not, Desmond leered and pushed forward.

"Only if you want me to lie to your face. But, hey, I'm sure you've done the same to me, so-"

"Bastard!" Alex yelled out.

"Because you can never be wrong, can you Alex?" Desmond called back. He glanced down and saw Alex's free arm was shaking; a tight fist made. He was holding back – subconsciously or not – but Desmond wasn't. He couldn't. He had to leave, and no one – not even Alex – was going to stop him. He crushed his own hand up into a ball and hissed out, "Isn't that-"

Desmond stretched his arm back and punched Alex as hard as he could.

And that time, he had been aiming to break something.

Maybe Alex felt it enough to actually be in pain, but Desmond had just been looking for a chance to wrench himself free from the other. He drew his arms back and jumped onto the arm of the couch, using it as leverage to catapult himself up, off the ground – until he was stumbling backwards the door, out of Alex's reach.

The other man stared at him, hands on his chest where he had been hit – maybe it did hurt.

And maybe Desmond didn't care.

"You just…" Alex whispered, glancing at where Desmond had been only a moment ago – at the settee, now tilted from the force of the push off.

"One of those things they taught us," Desmond said, resolved to snub any more advancements. He couldn't afford it.

"And you never-?"

"-Told you?" Desmond asked, placing a throbbing hand on the door. "No, I guess I didn't. Maybe I just wanted some secrets to keep for myself." Alex was silent for long enough that Desmond assumed that he had finally run out of things to say.

"Please," he said, finally. "Just… stay. I can fix this. _We_ can fix this. And you can do whatever you want – I can get you your own place, if you want. We can just be friends, if you want that, too." As Alex talked Desmond was busy undoing the locks on the door with little clicks and metallic slides.

"That's a good plan," Desmond offered – and he wasn't looking at Alex anymore, but the door. His hand rested on the handle as if he was thinking it over. As if there was the slightest degree of a chance that-

Desmond let the door swing open, and the foyer erupted in pale, artificial light.

"But I don't know what I want." He put both backpack straps over his shoulders and took a few decisive steps forward. Out of the apartment, into the hall, and for a moment he glanced back over his shoulder at Alex Mercer, who was still lodged deep in the dark recesses of his home.

Not theirs. _His_.

"Goodbye, Alex." Desmond said, and the sound of the door slamming shut wasn't enough to wake Alex from his nightmare.

**xxxx**

One Minute. It had been one minute since Desmond shut the door for the last time.

One Minute.

It didn't seem possible that everything important happened in the insignificant span of a minute. His human counterpart's death – and so many other deaths he had caused – the threat of a nuke stopped.

And now this.

While on the subject, it also wasn't fair that such a small amount of time had the ability to be important. It wasn't fair that his creation and near destruction were on par with a door slamming shut.

But here he was – Alex was. Not Desmond. Desmond wasn't coming back.

Desmond deserved better than coming back – Desmond deserved someone better than him; someone who saw him as a person. Not a solution. He could argue a million things, but Alex knew that. Maybe he loved Desmond – but he loved the idea of him too. He thought Desmond was enough to give sustenance to them both. Somewhere in their relationship there had formed a dependency that Alex couldn't shake himself out of.

He was shaking now.

He trembled as he turned from the door and stepped past the couch. He shook as he tore the curtains from the window and stared stared down the long flights of the building; eyeing the black pavement. Maybe he had been standing for more than a minute – maybe an hour, maybe a day; he could stand there his whole goddamn life and Alex bet that he wouldn't even notice.

So he fell.

Just so he could feel something; if it was only the humid wind brushing through his clothes as he continued to drop like a dead weight. And he wanted to be furious – he wanted to blame Desmond for what he had done to him, he wanted him to hurt just like he was – but that was the problem.

When you loved someone, you only wanted to help them. Protect them. Keep them.

Well, he had helped Desmond, for a little while. But he was gone – and Desmond didn't need him – never needed him, maybe, if they weren't lying to each other.

The ground glared up at him and Alex didn't bother to slow himself – he had lost so much biomass already; he hadn't consumed in so many weeks. So when he landed – on top of an NYPD cruiser that was ambling down the slowly deteriorating roads, looking for trouble, he knew it was going to hurt.

The bullet proof glass splintered and cracked under his weight in orchestrated destruction. The steel groaned as it twisted and bent to fit the man-sized crater he had made. Alex was almost certain that part of the engine had lodged itself through is leg, because why else would there be a trail of blood coming down the hood of the tattered and torn car?

Behind him, there was a groan.

Alex could just turn his head; left, right – his skull had went through the glass and roof, and his shoulders kept him wedged in place.

A man was staring at him. A little older, in the passenger seat. There was blood coming on his lip. He unhinged his jaw and red began to slip out; one hand was limply left on the car door, and his other was twitching and hemorrhaging under Alex's head; crushed and useless. Another turn and there was an unconscious women, bent into the driver's wheel. Her hair and skin – both shades of brown – were covered in a bright sheet of scarlet. Alex couldn't tell where all the blood was coming from. A moment later, the sun shone through the spider web of cracked and shattered and broken glass to reveal hundreds of shards that had embedded themselves into the woman's skin. Alex felt a brittle crackle as he moved his arm up; he was dimly aware that more bits of the windshield were digging into his fingers, but – he broke a small hole in the glass and just managed to touch his hand to the woman's neck.

He felt a pulse. Again, the man was groaning.

"I'm… sorry," he whispered. He wasn't sure if he was calling out to Desmond or just the two in the car. Slowly, he felt them. The small threads of biomass creeping along the wreckage, moving up his arms, past his body, surrounding the two bleeders. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept on muttering as he felt the bindings grow tighter, thicker – the woman remained in her coma but the man was twisting and pulling; banging his head against the lowered, dented roof. He screamed in total agony as those tentacles bore through him – cut through and dissected him like he was no harder to kill than a bug. And then the yells and cries turned into a guttural sounding groan, and Alex knew he had ripped through his lungs; then his vocal cords; then his brain. More red sprayed the inside of the car; coating his clothes, running down his cheeks and onto his lips and even as he could feel their lives seep into his mind – like lonely souls slowly waltzing into a collective – he could only mumble a broken apology as their pain mixed with his own, and his tears mixed with their blood.

_This is what you're fighting for,_ Desmond said, off in the distance of his memory, and that only made him weep.

**xxxx **

One Week. It had been one week and one thousand miles, but even in the sticky mess of a dead-end summer he still shuttered at night. He still felt empty. He _was_ empty. He had nothing – which was nothing new to Desmond, because he never really had anything in the first place but at least he didn't mind _then_.

_Leaving was nothing new_, Desmond thought. He rolled around against the scratchy comforter on the borrowed bed. It was disgusting; the never washed covers of cheap models, but he was just so cold all the time, now. The heavy duty white hoodie he had gotten back in… _well_. He could barely stand to take it off now.

"You're used to this," he said softly to himself, voice humbly sinking into the pillows around his head. "He knew. I said goodbye. That's more than I can say for every other place I've been." The out-loud reasoning was supposed to make him feel better – to alleviate some of his guilt, some regret – at least convince him to close his eyes for a moment. But… but…

He kicked the dirty covers off his body and switched on the bedside lamp. The room was cream colored and faded with floral patterns on the wall – muted and silent and, where there was no wall or ceiling, heavy, dusty material covered the space. Curtains and carpet and sheets; all offering the false pretenses of warmth and protection. He opened the side table's top drawer, hearing the small wheels on its track pop with the movement. He snorted as he peered inside: Bible and a phone book – some things never changed.

Too bad he didn't believe in it, he figured, reaching for the yellow pages instead of the faux leather bound, gold encrusted tome. Sure, he didn't have anyone to call, but he didn't have anyone to pray to, either.

Desmond glanced down at the infinite stream of numbers sloping down the page.

"I'll get over it," he said. Confidently. He flipped through another set of pages too thin to properly separate. He stared at the names, looking for new, unused ones.

"I'll get over him." He blinked a few times in quick succession. "I'm used to this. I…" he swallowed, looked up, looked down. "I said goodbye. That meant _something_." It did – didn't it? It meant he wanted closure – it meant that he cared enough to _want_ closure. He _never_ said goodbye. He never warned anyone. Except for Alex. He never trusted anyone except Alex. He never lived with – never laughed with – never, _shit_, never made love with _anyone_ except Alex.

Because it was always Alex, wasn't it?

"It's… fuck," he said urgently, rubbing at his eyes. He tried to look back up, try and find a distraction _(what did it matter, though – he knew places like this as if it were his job,)_ but he couldn't. He didn't.

The text of numbers and names and lives blurred before Desmond Miles - no more fake identities, fake histories, he was stuck by himself for now.

He made fists and wrenched his fingers into the sheets. _You're used to this_, he tried to tell himself.

But the second he opened his mouth his sobs came out; tears leaked down the creases of his face and made wet spots in the layers of thin phonebook pages – tears he had been holding back for a week. Tears he couldn't stop.

Why _shouldn't_ he let himself cry? He thought, bending forward till the book slid off his legs with a _clunk_. People cry when they lose something they loved.

Several hundred feet away, in the tar filled plateau of the motel's parking lot, an inconspicuous van pulled up; right next to a red motorcycle. There were two people in the van. Just two – armored, masked. One had a syringe in his hand: "How much time does this give us?"

"Enough to get back home," the other said, her words crunched by an Italian accent. "Get to watch him wake up confused as hell in one of the labs."

Both doors simultaneously opened; simultaneously slammed shut. No one took notice – not even them. It was just one of those sounds that faded with the wind, carried off by the last days of August.

**xxxx**

Dana let her fingers hover over the keyboard, eyes stuck on the small numbers in the corner of the screen.

_11:58 pm_

_ 11:59 pm_

_ 12:00 am_

It was tomorrow. Dana buried her face in her arms and groaned. September 23rd. It had been a month since Desmond left. One month. _Fuck_, it felt like a whole goddamn year. For Alex it probably felt like a century. Of course, she never got his opinion on it. He had barely said a word to her – to anyone. As if they were still living in the Outbreak. He would be gone, hours, days at a time, only coming to her apartment with a status report or a question. Except now there was the discernable difference. Now Alex was throwing himself into the aid of others.

And this time, Dana could tell he was hurting.

It wasn't even woman's intuition or some sixth sense she had developed – it was common sense. The lumbering slowness of his movement, his downcast eyes and the gauntness of his face and body – even under the layers of clothes, it was as if his limbs were made of nothing more stable than plastic straws.

And still he kept fighting. No relief, no nutrition, he was dragging himself forward like a glass cannon waiting to shatter. And the worst part was that Dana couldn't do anything.

She was his sister, but Desmond was something to Alex that she couldn't touch, couldn't get close to. She would reach out and get nothing, and she wasn't sure if she should be angry at Desmond for leaving, or Alex for needing him, or –

Or maybe she was mad because all she could do was watch.

Somewhere in the foyer, a bell went off. It wasn't Alex – unless he had finally run out of energy and couldn't even run up walls anymore. He was scared to consume – something (_someone_) had ruined him and, yeah, she felt so fucking useful.

She trudged over to the speaker. "Hello?" she said, finger on the button.

No response.

"Hello?" she repeated. She checked the locks on the door – it could have been an accident, she thought – prayed – hoped. She continued watching the door; hands splayed on the small copper pad. Dana counted her breaths and the pulse beating in her fingers, which was going rampant and making her face flush.

She could hear footsteps.

They were the smallest taps on the carpet outside, but she heard them. She slowly moved back from the door, waiting, waiting…

A slip of paper shot out from under the entrance.

Dana jumped, watching the envelope flutter at her feet. She pushed herself back, trying not to inhale too harshly. She stood still for a minute, still listening with buzzing ears. Finally she moved forward, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, and despite any other concepts of doubt or fear or even self preservation, she tossed her hand to the dead bolt and let the door swing open.

No one was there.

Poking her head out – looking left, right, left again for good measure, she slowly receded back into her apartment, letting the door lightly close in front of her.

She didn't know what she was expecting. Fuck, she was still half imagining someone to burst down the door as she stooped down and grasped the paper with pale, trembling fingers.

Dana creased her hands over the envelope, trying to tell what was inside. Powder? Bombs? All she could feel was the edge of a single piece of stationary. She sucked in a breath and broke through the top of the envelope.

Out of everything, Dana wasn't expecting a letter.

One page of typical printer paper. Black ink. Times New Roman Font. ' _Dana Mercer_,' it started, right at the headline. No pretenses of personal warmth like a simple _Dana_; no formality of a _Ms. Mercer_, either. She flicked her eyes down almost unwillingly, as if her senses all gravitated to the unread words on the page.

_ 'We have grown aware of your continued investigations of the Abstergo Corporation. In this, we must congratulate you upon making such advanced discoveries this early in your research. Moreover, we are interested in having you work with us. We cannot promise you fortune or fame, or even guarantee that the public will see what you have written, but we can promise our full efforts will be made to protect you. Abstergo is not blind to your work; something you may have noticed in recent weeks._

_ We understand that it is hard to trust a simple document, just like under normal circumstances we would find it hard to trust you. But we have also learned that you, as well as your brother Alex Mercer, notably referred to as the only living sample of the Blacklight Virus currently in existence, had relations with Desmond Miles._

_ Under your combined care, he eluded the Abstergo Corporation for several months. Unfortunately, after leaving New York Zero he was tracked down by their agents and captured._

_ Regardless of whether or not he informed you, Desmond Miles was born into a line of assassins. Abstergo – acting as a front for the Templars; something you are at least vaguely aware of by now – have attempted to eradicate the world of us. Desmond has not been killed by the Templars as of now. However, there is more at risk than just his life in this war._

_ A second note will arrive tomorrow at five thirty if nothing is interrupted, requesting further response as to whether we may use your assistance._

_ One last note: Under no circumstances should you inform anyone of this exchange. Not even your brother. His relationship with Desmond was significant, as far as we can gather, and we fear that he may make radical movements if he became aware that Desmond was in danger – tactics that could upset the small amounts of tranquility and stability we have gained in the present._

_ The Order hopes to hear from you in the near future,'_

In replace of a signature, there was an insignia resembling a minimalist compass towards the bottom of the page. She flipped the paper over, and didn't see anything else of suspicion or notice.

Dana looked around and realized that she was sitting on the edge of her couch. She leaned forward, dumping the paper on the coffee table and watched it with wary eyes. _Well_, she was thinking; _now what?_

A first thought had been to find Alex – just so she could tell him that Desmond was still alive. But then… maybe the whole thing _was_ a trap. There was only so much to judge from one piece of paper, but Dana figured that an overtly complicated way of dragging her off somewhere secretive was a lot more trouble than, say, having someone just break in and shoot her. She'd be inclined to believe it was simply _Abstergo_, disguising themselves as they tended to, if it wasn't for the fact that she had already dug out some rudimentary information on an adversary that called themselves 'Assassins'. Above everything, she wanted to wake up: she wanted the real truth of what was going on; why _Abstergo_ went from nothing to everything; why they were connected to that elusive definition of Templars; what they wanted, how they fought, and who they were fighting against.

And, of course, how Desmond had gotten himself entangled in the whole damn mess.

She tugged at her hair and thought and thought and _thought_; trying to decide whether to go forwards or backwards or to just stand still.

Maybe she was walking into more trouble; just another stab into her brother, while she was at it, but she was still young. Young _enough_, at least, and she'd be lying if the near two years she had spent under weren't influencing her at all; or the idea that if she knew what happened to Desmond – even if Alex could never know – would ease some of her own suffering in the most selfish way possible.

But still.

She stood; picking up the letter one more time; reading it through as she walked back over to her office space. The letter went straight into the shredder, and she didn't even blink as the whirring and crunching of paper filled the darkened room.

Then everything was silent. One more time.

**xxxx**

**A/N: This is the last chapter. There is an epilogue, of course, but now you know why this is a story meant to 'bridge gaps' between games versus just creating a more expansive Alternate Universe. I honestly think this is how the relationship between Desmond Miles and Alex Mercer would fall apart – it's not exactly fate, but it is two strong characters fighting things even stronger than themselves; making bad decisions; having bad timing, and all of that culminating into **_**this**_**. And it is sad and this really isn't much of an ending and then, and then, well, one more thing.**


	18. Part XVIII: You Were Supposed to Return

_March, 2018_

Under the gray sky, in between the gray buildings, and above the gray pavement, a lone figure walked.

He dressed unassumingly and moved unafraid through the streets. It was noon, and it was just above freezing – this was the first winter in five years where New York Zero didn't reach negative twenty degrees; but the cold continued to cling like dead fingers for eight months out of the year. The atmosphere was still recovering from the sudden Mass Cooling Effect that took place six years ago, and the pollution heavy cities such as the rather infamous Big Apple were always the worst when it came to climate, so many people moved.

Which, coincidentally, was why _he_ came to the city.

The man hitched a pack heavy with supplies over his shoulder and inspected a building – tall and eggshell colored with a torn red banner that might have once held words - and the he sighed in the style of a mourner; or, at least, someone who was disappointed in what he was looking at.

Turning, he continued to shuffle in a direction that could have been home. Maybe there were friends waiting for him in an old factory that had been refurbished into a living space – maybe there was a condo with a beat up mattress and a coffee pot; a worthless thing that he protected as if it was sacred. Or maybe there was no home for the disappointed man with a downcast mouth and troubled eyes, who walked through the decrepit remains of New York Zero like a tired tourist.

He examined and walked and examined and walked, and even when he heard a group of younger men with jeering faces half hidden under ski caps stalk up behind him, intent on intimidation and theft, he did not stop this pattern of staged ignorance until one of them finally addressed him as 'Jackass!' and brandished a gun warmed by jittery fingers.

And then the man struck.

His movements could barely be classified as human, and Alex Mercer – who could draw the line between Humanity and Not better than anyone else – watched him with an objective fascination from two hundred feet up, like he was sure those long dead Gentek goons had watched the beginnings of _him_ all those years ago.

There was a flash of metal flying through the air and two men went down, clutching their abdomens and cursing as their knees hit rough pavement. The other three didn't seem to take notice – or maybe their target just moved too fast to actually be seen properly. He might have run through the thug on the left with a sword – or perhaps just a knife; even Alex found himself tilting his head and leaning off the edge of the rooftop he was perched on, trying to get a better picture. Then, all he saw – _clearly_ saw – were two enemies running at each other, and a second later the one in the black cloak was standing over a man bleeding out from his windpipe.

He turned and looked at the one remaining man of the group – their leader, or who Alex interpreted as such. The man in black said something short and quick and low enough that Alex couldn't make it out. And then he turned around.

He started walking away.

**xxxx**

He looked like an ink blot to Alex Mercer. Alex had been checking up on his home – running across rooftops and up shattering planes of glass and dented stone walls as he searched for anything amiss.

Such as seeing people _out_, if he was being honest. There was still an estimated two years before droves of former U.S. citizens could brave the roughness of a cold, expansive city scape that had fallen into disrepair from mass emigration and billions of lost tax dollars. Most of the people who remained lived off of Wel-fare or off the Grid. And despite the Detroit jokes people liked to throw around, it was even eerie to see more than five cars drive down the broken, unplowed roads, these days.

Alex wondered if there was ever a time where he had honestly _enjoyed_ living in Manhattan.

And then he realized that yes, there _had_ been a few months where he thought everything would work out well for him in the end, and he couldn't imagine himself happier anywhere else on Earth - but then he had to cut that train of thought and do something else with rigorous determination; praying that he would just _forget_, already.

That 'something else' was now watching the man that patrolled the ground with the same authority in which Alex patrolled the skies. He wore a long, coal colored coat – it cut off around the knee, and it would have done a great job of making the man look like a pile of dirtied snow if it weren't for the red sash that had been sewed around the abdomen of the garment. Alex was up too high to make out any other details – he was wearing boots and pants that were, again, black – and his face was covered by a large hood. He had caught the stranger merely taking in his surroundings – that was what Alex supposed he was doing, at least – just standing and observing. Once he thought the man was shaking his head, as if he could remember what New York Zero looked like before the winter of 2012; hell, maybe he did, Alex didn't know. At any rate, Alex slowly followed him, paralleling his movements from thirty stories up. Usually whenever Alex found someone wandering around by themselves he would go and greet them – everyone knew who he was now, anyway. Sometimes they needed help, sometimes they told him to get the hell away from them, sometimes he talked with them for a few blocks until they had reached a destination, whatever they needed. And as much as he wanted to go down and see what the hooded man was doing, he remained on the rooftops; not content in watching, but not willing to risk the man shouting at him to move along.

So, yes, he was curious.

And then, _they_ had appeared.

Gangs were normal on the Island – some people joined them to have a haven; others just wanted to use the city as a grown-up version of a playground. Alex made sure they didn't go to extremes; that they weren't just shooting other civilians on the street – that turf wars didn't pan out for miles; for months. So, some people loved him, some people hated him, and when he saw the group of thugs approach the shrouded man, he was already on the ledge of the battered remains of a skyscraper, letting one foot slide out to meet air before he crashed down onto the scene – but then the cloaked man moved.

He effortlessly let blades slice through four of the five men in less than sixty seconds. No guns, no demands, he just…

And then he let the remaining individual escape; parting from the bloody scene as if he had just asked the last man standing for directions.

Now he was slowly turning a corner, going down to the next block that was full of apartment buildings. Alex watched him go, waiting one minute, two, before he backed up from the ledge and gave himself a running start; propelling himself off the roof and onto another building across the street.

The wind rushed by him enough that his eyes began to water – he landed with a crash in the middle of the roof, shaking off small bits of debris as he righted himself. Had the man heard that? Probably. His movements were less like an eagle sailing through open air and more like a piano being tossed from a window. He leaned down the face of the building the stranger had vanished behind.

No one was there. Nothing but a few scant pieces of paper, getting knocked around in the wind tunnel. Alex kept staring, anyway; searching for a sign of movement. At one point he even attempted to find a sign of life by thermal signatures, but he only saw two small pinpricks of humanoid figures, huddled in the top of one of the apartment buildings. The man couldn't have gotten into a room that fast – not unless he scaled the walls and jumped in an open window, at least. Alex sighed, staggering back; his body relaxed under the frustration of losing the chase; of letting an answer slip him by.

He slowly turned around, preparing to head back to higher ground and continue his patrol.

And then –

"Name and purpose," the hooded man ground out from behind him. He shoved Alex into the limestone ridge. Maybe it was because he was caught off guard, or because the man in the black jacket was much stronger than anyone should have had the right to be, but Alex felt his legs crumble onto the ground, just in time for a mechanical hiss to go out and the silvery spike of a hidden blade press itself against his throat. He could smell the blood of a murdered man, still coating the tip of it, and _why_, he had to think, as he was held to the wall by his shoulder, _why did he think that this man could have been anything _but_ a bad guy?_

"Name and purpose," he repeated. "Don't make me ask a third time."

"You don't have to do this," Alex fired back, already feeling the lurches of biomass ripple under his surface area; the combat usage he got out of them were rare, and he hoped he wouldn't have to use them on someone because of a misunderstanding, but-

"Rest in peace then," the man swung his bladed arm back to make a strike, and with the movement of the stale air between them, Alex caught something.

A scent. A smell. Half gone and watered down; it could have just been a coincidence but underneath the dark cover there was the tint of something – _someone_ – long, long gone.

Alex groaned at the pain of the memory and doubled over, not even bothering to control his biomass as it shot forward, surprising the other with a shout. Alex grasped at his temples and staggered to his feet, just in time to watch what could have, may have, just possibly been Desmond Miles rushing at him with an unsheathed sword.

The man rose into the air, and Alex suddenly found himself grimacing. "_Shit_," he let the curse fall from his mouth when he saw a pair of tentacles drop onto the ground, detached by a blade he couldn't even see moving.

This – _person_ – was fast, and Alex had to actually leap out of the way as the other man came running towards him again, making wide arks with the sword in the hopes – no, not hopes. This man did not hope to get lucky with his weapons. He was aiming. He was trying. They continued a back and forth motion of offense and retreat for a few more steps and tumbles until Alex felt another surge of hot pain rupture in his body. He retracted the biomass back into himself – long range was no help.

"I'm not trying to hurt you!" he called out, at the other side of the roof now.

"No you're not," the man shot back. "Try harder!" He began sprinting again and Alex might have – maybe – started to panic for a moment before he pivoted around and just _jumped_.

Rapidly the air sailed around him. Alex's stomach lurched in familiar fashion and one second later – time only seemed to flow in seconds, now – he was crashing into a neighboring roof with a shattering _crack!_ as dust blew across the ancient brownstone. He coughed, and chanced a look behind him.

The other man appeared out of the smoke.

"Wh-" Alex heard several _somethings_ cut through the air, and by more of an instinct than anything he morphed his arm into a wide blade, thick enough to act like a shield against a small round of throwing knives. The man was armed to the teeth and moved just as fast as Alex could.

And still there was that scent; that half formed optimism that made his head pound. That was what made him hesitate and call out; that was why he just couldn't _fight_ _back_.

So of course, when the possible Desmond Miles – _don't say it_, he thought, _don't even _think_ it_ – took a good, hard look at him and simply… _turned around_, running towards the North end of the roof as if to jump the chasm from one street to the next, Alex only paused long enough to see the other man grasp at the edge of a far off building before pulling himself up and going across another rooftop after that, slowly progressing away from Alex and their fight.

And then Alex started running.

He moved slowly at first, in a dream, in a stupor; as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing. But Desmond seemed to know perfectly well; making creative swings through the air; catching himself on window ledges when Alex could only stop in his tracks and wonder desperately if the other was going to fall.  
>But he didn't. There was no misstep; no hesitation; no degree of error that Alex's eyes could see. And so they moved in a flurry through the cold swirling winds of a wasteland. Once in a while they would reach a toppled building, and a storm of filth and fragments would come out until Alex's vision was too obscured, and the dust stung his eyes too much to even see. But he kept moving, kept on looking for the other man as they sprang across the dreary landscape, going a story higher each time as they approached what used to be a commercial district of the city. Now it lay still, as if the cement were bones, and for a little while Alex thought that he had lost the other man – at least until he saw a small speck climbing up the edge of a lopsided sky scraper; its glass body half shattered and corroded in the wind.<p>

He followed, adding to the damage as he raced to the peak.

"Stop!" he called out, finally getting close enough to the cloaked man when they reached the industrial summit. They reunited as they had met; although now there was a slight breathlessness from the both of them. A scowl burned its way onto the man's lips.

_Scarred_ lips.

"Desmond…" Alex lurched forward a bit. He was close enough that a jump from him would finish the distance. But – but – as he moved, Desmond was looking around, towards the extremely far off ground – _how_ _high up were they? Three hundred; four hundred feet?_ - stretching his neck to look over his shoulder.

He went towards the edge.

"No!"

There was a pause in the universe then, as Desmond Miles stared back at him; arms stretched out wide as if an invisible cross had strung him up. Maybe there was a smirk in his face; maybe it was only a twisted glare, but all Alex could do was watch as Desmond let his feet teeter and balance on the edge of the roof until – finally – he fell.

And fell.

And _fell_.

At some point Alex wondered if there would be a _splat!_ from this high up. He remained rooted to the spot for a long time, unwilling to see the outcome of that grand exit. He felt cheated, somehow, as if something pre-determined was there to fuck with him; show him everything he could have; dangle it under his nose, and then just fling it back into Dead Space.

Or maybe he was just going crazy. But he always wanted to believe that the delusions of a mad man were a little more pleasant than _this_.

With that thought in mind – that the entire episode had just been a dream; that he was unraveling and would simply be dead soon – the prospect of looking over the wall seemed that much more bearable. He ambled to the edge, easing himself to his knees as he chanced a fruitless look down.

There was a store awning across the road that had been neatly slashed, right down the middle.

And a man in black was walking away from it.

And Alex realized something then; he finally let it sink in: Desmond Miles was still alive, out there, _somehow_ – or at least someone very closely resembling him, and –

and he was currently walking away.

Alex smashed his palms together and took the plunge.

As he crashed down, his arms changed into claws; gnarled, black talons that reached towards the earth as he plummeted south. He was _just_ close enough, he thought – and if he focused on what he needed to hit – what he needed to _miss_ – then maybe, _maybe_, he could change something.

As he made contact with the ground, Alex dug his claws into the broken asphalt, letting the gravel scrape at his hands. Biomass surged out of him in an instant. And just as Desmond was turning to observe the noise; the dirt; the destruction – he let out a yell as dozens of black spikes spread out around him. The sound was a rumble, deafening in the low growl that ripped from the earth. Desmond was still alive after the devastating attack; but Alex judged from the lack of rushed steps in the opposite direction that his plan had worked: the other man wasn't going anywhere.

Alex rose from the cracked crater of asphalt that he had made and saw the man thrashing, cutting wildly at the half dozen spikes piercing superficial holes in his jacket. As he drew nearer he made out a small split on maybe-Desmond's right cheek, lazily streaming blood. His fingers were tainted a sticky red from hitting the purposefully rough spikes of solidified biomass that jutted from the broken ground like the demented, dead trunks of black trees. They formed a dense thicket, leaving him trapped.

When Alex was practically close enough to reach out and touch the other man – who couldn't be anyone _besides_ Desmond Miles, he believed, fingers shaking anxiously, barely stomaching the quaking excitement as he whispered a testing, "_Desmond_?" The name felt exotic and strange and utterly wonderful on his tongue. "Desmond Miles?"

Desmond stilled his limbs before snapping an accusing, hateful glower on Alex. "How do you know my name?" He demanded, lurching forward to growl at the other before leaning back again, heatedly inspecting his captor with large, disdainful eyes.

"Desmond," Alex furrowed his eyebrows and reached out a hand in a pleading gesture, trying to get the man to calm down, trying to spare himself that possessed look. "Desmond, it's me –"

Desmond snarled at the hand and wrenched his left arm forward so sharply that his limb was set free of the spikes with a heavy, screeching rip of fabric.

_"Get the fuck away from me!"_ he yelled, sliding out that hidden blade from a metallic gauntlet – now sitting visible on his wrist – his _tattooed_ wrist, as if Alex needed any more proof already as to who he was talking to. The needle thin point jutted a scant inch away from Alex's Adam's apple. He jumped back, instinctively avoiding the potential damage as Desmond hissed, "What the hell _are_ you?" His anger was temporarily swallowed by honest intrigue as he stared the enigma of Alex Mercer down.

He … didn't remember? There was no doubt that the man in front of Alex was anyone _but_ Desmond Miles. There was half of that recognizable scent coming off the other; and he looked nearly identical to the man of Alex's memories, like a slightly older brother. There was the scar, his eyes, his face, his voice, his _everything_ was entrenched with Desmond Miles.

"I…I'm Alex Mercer," he said, trying to keep any sign of emotion out of his voice. All that seemed to show was disillusionment. "We lived together during the summer of 2012. Here, in Manhattan. We were friends." _More than friends_, he wanted to say, but he pressed forward. "You really don't remember me?"

Desmond was thinking now, pulling himself out of the stare directed at middle space - somewhere through Alex's head. He got his eyes to focus again so he could coolly say, "It's been a _long_ six years, Alex." He didn't say the name with any recognition, and Alex clenched his fists until only his white knuckles showed, as if that would hold in the air that would keep him from deflating. "Not all of it revolved around remembering _you_."

"…Well, I knew that," he said after a moment, and his throat swelled up so hard that he had to glance down and make sure that the hidden blade hadn't actually pierced through his neck.

"Don't sound so disappointed." Desmond made a move to shrug, remembered that his other arm and most of his back was pinned, and stopped the motions. "I don't remember a lot of people."

Alex saw the half-hearted struggling and walked forward again. Desmond had lowered his arm, and the blade retracted quietly, only slicing the air as it moved back to its holster. Alex wrapped his hands around one of the spikes and broke it off; letting it slide out of the layer of clothing it pierced until it lay uselessly on the ground. Desmond didn't move, didn't say anything as Alex gently worked around him, trying to free him bit by bit without the unnecessary decimation of the rest of his winter coat. Once in a while his fingers passed over dark skin – cold against his own, unprotected against the weather – and he would let those dead feelings come forward again: A kiss, a conversation, something completely nonsensical that managed to keep him lucid over the years of near isolation in a slowly dying city. It was enough to make him pause, hands trembling; for fear that he might accidentally drive one of the shards of protruding biomass into the other man due to the lack of focus that came with resurfacing reminiscences.

Within a few minutes Desmond was free again, the long blasts of wind barreling through the poor state of his garments. He didn't shiver; he didn't complain. All he did was wipe a finger down the cut in his face, smearing a faded scarlet into his cheek to go along with the freezing blush the blustery weather gave his skin.

"Where were you going?" Alex asked, and Desmond stared at him as if he had forgotten that he was there. His face was neutrally set in a look of pious mourning; eyebrows raised at everything he cast his eyes onto - as if it was all just another problem he had to take care of. His eyes were still deep and brown and searching, and his hair was still closely cropped to his head, with the addition of thin stubble reaching down and sweeping along his jaw.

It was like Alex was stuck looking at two different people.

Desmond quirked his lips against his cheeks in a familiar gesture, and Alex thought of the twenty-five year old man he had spent months with. And then Desmond turned, facing the direction of wherever his destination was – if he had one in the first place – and he just muttered, "Home," and Alex realized that he was still in the presence of a stranger. "Come on," Desmond started walking forward, and at the sound of gravel scraping the toes of his shoes Alex noticed he had started following; eyes fixed on Desmond's back. There he saw dark brown packs of equipment, plus one long holster connected to his satchel, revealing where he had taken a sword from and where it had ultimately disappeared to. Against his hip and sides there were knives and a lone handgun, showing themselves whenever the wind blew the bottom tatters of his jacket in a certain way. They all sat in pretty black holsters, inscribed with symbols Alex couldn't make out.

They trudged down the snow laden paths, tinted blue by the miserable cold. It was high noon, and the sun turned the sky the color of ivory. "It's up on Twelfth," he said – Desmond – all of a sudden. "About another half a mile. We can turn here." He paused for a second at a cross walk. Its stop lights were out, the crossing sign on the opposite side of the street was dead - glass and bulbs shot out to collect as city waste. Alex remained several feet behind Desmond, out of politeness, and for a moment he thought it was funny that the whole metropolis was practically abandoned and Desmond couldn't even bring himself to J-walk.

"It's not much compared to your place," Desmond admitted.

"My place?"

"The one we stayed at six years ago, I mean. If you have another one it's still nicer than mine."

Alex squinted. "You remember that?" he asked, opening his mouth to the frozen air.

Desmond paused, and turned back to stare at the other, as if he knew what would happen should he say yes, as if he could see those precious glimpses of the future as clearly as one would see the sunset. "Yes," he admitted finally. "I remember that, Alex."

"Then why did you attack me?" Alex took several steps towards the other without realizing it. "Why did you try to run away? Why-" _have you changed so much?_ He wanted to say, but then he saw the look Desmond was giving him, and he stepped back again, as if he had managed to receive that same memorial mental shock just by being close to the other man. Alex watched Desmond breath out, carbon dioxide turning into mist and getting absorbed into the air as the universe attempted to reach one average temperature. _Tried_ being the key word, of course. It wasn't the universe's fault, though, he figured – having Desmond there just threw everything off kilter.

"Do you have any idea what I've been doing the past six years?" The tone was defensive and accusing. More wind blew between them, but neither had the capability to flinch. "I've been fighting the Templars – trying to stop _this," _he gestured with an arm to the surrounding buildings "from getting worse."

Alex looked around the desolate badlands as if he had never done so before, taking in the scene, seasonally frozen in its squalor.

"…How's that going for you?" he asked, meeting Desmond's gaze again.

"Time heals all wounds." Desmond said, trudging forwards again. Alex fell into step; next to him this time. "At any rate, I joined them, the Order."

"That would explain the weapons." Desmond nodded slowly. "Still doesn't explain why you thought I was your enemy."

"You… can sense heat signatures with your eyes, right?"

"I can."

"I got something like that. Eagle Vision, that's what they call it. Everyone around gets color coded for my convenience – allies, enemies… targets." He slid his gaze over to Alex. "You were gold."

Three guessed as to what _that_ meant. "Have you killed everyone in gold?"

"Unless I fuck up. The vision's only been wrong once." He turned his head onward again. "And that was a millennia ago."

Alex heard the snow crunch under Desmond's cleats.

"I'm on your side," Alex offered tentatively.

"Don't worry about it," Desmond continued in a casual manner. "Not like I could kill _you_ anyway."

"You were pretty impressive back there."

"That's why they trained me. I can _amaze_ all my targets into dying."

"So, you remember my apartment," he said, reeling the topic back in. "And you remember that I can see heat signatures… but you can't remember _me_?"

Desmond stopped and twisted his face up into a snarl. "Stop saying that like you're the only thing I forgot!" he snapped. As quickly as the outburst came, he fell back into that familiar dead expression. "…It's not just you," he muttered, shifting on his feet. "It's hard to remember a lot of things. Especially from six years ago. Just… give me a minute. It'll come back." Alex stared worriedly at Desmond as he switched moods so rapidly. He had to force himself to be quiet, lest Desmond went off again – the other man just shouldn't have looked so livid. So _angry_. It wasn't… right. Alex leaned in and looked at Desmond – _really_ looked at Desmond, as if the intensity of his gaze could somehow make up for the lost time.

He looked so _tired_. There were creases on his forehead, and his eyes had receded into his head a bit. He was thirty one or so, Alex knew. And those six years of ageing stared back at him like an abyss.

It was still Desmond he was looking at, of course. But he _was_ different. More than Alex wanted to admit. He had morphed into something else – something recognizable if only because of that scar on his lip and a half remembered scent that desperately clung to his skin despite everything else.

And he wanted to reach out and hold Desmond's face and ask him what had happened in the six years he had been gone. He wanted a smile to come across wide lips and a familiar crinkle to appear from under his lids, lighting up his face. He kept on searching for a sign of _that_ man inside the one that stood before him. He realized, practically recoiling from the other in horror, that he wanted the old Desmond back.

But there was no old Desmond to go back to. Just like there had been no Alex Mercer to go back to; the Gentek bastard was dead, and _he_ was the remaining legacy; the body. Desmond was the same way, he assumed – there was no 'real Desmond' hiding behind a façade now. _This_ was the real Desmond. He had simply _changed_ over time, like so many people do.

Alex accepted that within a second of comprehending it; the Desmond from six years ago and the Desmond staring at him now were both the _Real_ Desmond.

But he only loved the Real Desmond from the past. This Desmond was an _outsider_ to him. In fact, he could just walk away, he thought. It wasn't hard to give up – most of the time that was just what he ended up doing, anyways; it was easier in the long run.

He remembered a time when running from Desmond wasn't even an _option_, much less a preference. Desmond began that striding walk of his again, and Alex shifted his weight until he was moving, too. Half-heartedly following the man beside him.

They crossed another street and Desmond whispered, "You're not the only one I've lost."

Alex's mouth went dry and his belly felt hot and churning. _But why would he be surprised?_ he told himself – Desmond was right; it _had_ been six years.

Plenty of time to forget.

Plenty of time to find someone else.

"…Did they die?" Alex asked, trying to sound detached if only because Desmond's tone was even more so.

"Might as well have." I was dead to her by the time I left, anyway."

"Oh." Part of Alex was grateful, and the other part whispered that he was in the same boat as the woman, too.

"She's probably still around," Desmond went on to say; Alex just stared at the spider-webbing cracks on the bleak, wet sidewalks. "Assassins won't let their members go _that_ easily." Even from several feet away Alex cringed from the bite those words had.

"You don't like it?" he inquired gently.

"Oh I like it just _fine_. I mean, if you've embraced a creed that's free from the typical filth of the rest of the world – something that you yourself can't get anything from – then _surely_ that means you're right… right?" He looked at the sky, and then at the building numbers. He had obviously reached an answer to that rhetorical question a while ago. "I'd rather be an Assassin than a Templar, at any rate." He said breezily. "Come on. My place is in here."

Desmond tugged at Alex's wrist, and he got one last look at the white, bone colored sky before the apartment walls enclosed around them.

**xxxx**

"I have some Sipsmith left over, if you want some," Desmond said in an odd show of hospitality, holding up a bottle of gin that was in easy reach – the apartment was small enough that he could do this without letting his hand off of Alex's arm. He did that soon enough, anyway, closing the door to the flat, letting Alex feel the lingering impact his body as if cold, metallic talons had been wrapped around him instead of simple fingers. Again, Desmond said nothing about being uncomfortable, only rubbing his fists together as he wandered further into his abode. Alex glanced behind him at the door: It wasn't locked. Looking around, Alex suspected that there wasn't much Desmond bothered to protect, anymore.

They were in one of those apartments made from the skeleton of an industrial plant. A place with thin, cracked windows and rattling heaters that kept out the wind, but not much else; no one ever intended to live in a place like this; people wandered in out of them, never meaning to spend much time; never thinking that they would stay months and years longer than planned.

There was a mattress and a dresser stuffed into the corner of the room. Desmond was in the part of the apartment that had probably meant to be used as a kitchen.

"It's freezing," Alex said, watching Desmond pour the amber spirit into a coffee mug.

"It's winter," Desmond said back, shrugging his shoulders. He had a staring contest with the wall as he took a sip. "I'm guessing you don't want any." He slid the bottle onto a wooden shelf, next to a few other mugs and lonely looking plates. One cup had been over turned in order to hold a handful of silverware.

"I only bothered drinking with you," Alex said. Desmond's eyes flicked over to him. "You liked wine a lot. Well, you liked just about anything, but white wine comes to mind first."

"Those were good summer drinks," he mentioned. "I can't remember stuff that specific about _you._" He glanced off to the side, and Alex possibly didn't imagine that he looked a bit wilted as he said that. "I do remember now," he started off, still not looking at anything in particular. "A bit. How we met in some bar I worked at. What was…"

"_Mkinely's_." Alex finished automatically. Desmond nodded.

"I liked you, even though I knew that was dangerous, I still talked with you. And then, well, we dropped pretenses, over time. You told me who you were, I told you what I was; I was tired of being so damn alone all the time and we both had that concept that we were the only people in the world who could ever understand each other," he said the words in a removed way, as if disagreeing with them. "And then we were living together." He paused, letting his lips part for a moment in trepidation before saying, "It was fun."

"Fun?" Alex echoed.

"Yes; fun. It was nice to actually have someone to talk to. You asked me questions; about my life, the Farm – that sort of thing – but I asked them right back, so I could hardly call it unfair. I remember I could just sit next to you and read, and that was fine with you – you didn't need to know everything, either."

"I don't. It hurts your mind, after a while."

"Those who increase knowledge, increase sorrow." Desmond smirked in a distant way. "And your sister-"

"-Dana," Alex hastily said.

"She's not here, is she?"

"Not now. She left, five years ago. Went through to Mexico."

"Legally?"

"I had the money to send her."

"But you're still here," Desmond observed, looking Alex up and down, still holding on to a knowing, twisted smile that Alex used to sport – still could, probably, if there was anything worth smiling about these days.

"I'm in the same boat as you; trying to hold the infrastructure up; trying to make sure that more people don't have to die before things get fixed."

"You're obviously not running out of energy," Desmond mentioned. "Those spikes were made out of biomass, right?"

Alex felt himself squirm. "I never said I didn't kill. There are a lot of…" he hesitated. "…bad people in the world. Here included."

"Sure there are," the tone was almost patronizing. "I've murdered plenty of them. I've _pretended_ to kill even more." Desmond predicted the confused look Alex was giving him, and went on; "You relive the memories of those you consume," he explained, though his voice dropped slightly at the word _consume_, as if he had still retained the tenderness of the topic. "Well, one more thing we have in common, I suppose. Having two lives in my head was almost enough to kill me – I don't know how _you_ do it."

Alex floundered for a moment at the news of Desmond almost dying; "Well," he said after a moment, standing stiffly. He watched Desmond take another drink. "You have distractions."

"Was I a good distraction?" Desmond asked.

"So good that you didn't qualify to be one," Alex responded. Desmond let a tiny, true smile spark for a moment in his eyes. "I… never knew that you almost died. I thought that you had joined the Order at some point; it was the Templars that found you first, right?"

Desmond shook his head in affirmation. "I met some allies; got away; went crazy; lost some allies; helped save the world with magic creations from an alien race of gods – and I even got a couple years added to my life for all the trouble. You know, the usual."

"Is that all the explanation I can get, or…"

"I've told this story so many times that I should honestly get someone to write a book about it. I could ask Dana, maybe." He moved past Alex and sat on the mattress; the mug went on the floor. "Actually," he began, slipping off the ruined pieces of his cloak. He wore a thinner jacket underneath – this one was black, too. A white shirt under that was poking its collar up from the zipper. "I'm surprised she didn't tell you. They recruited her about a month after I left the city, from what they told me; figured she would have…" he blinked, looking down at his feet for a moment. "Well, you probably weren't supposed to know that, hm?" Alex wandered forward, and it wasn't until Desmond grasped his arm and planted him on the mattress, muttering a '_calm _down_, Alex'_ that he could feel his teeth gnashing against one another in two aching lines.

"She _knew_?" he hissed out.

"Don't get mad at _her_; the Order probably made her swear confidentiality. She couldn't tell anyone. Probably."

"But then I would know where you were," he replied instantaneously, eyes darting as he tried to rewrite the past in his head.

"They thought you would screw something up," Desmond offered.

"I could have found you!" he yelled out, letting his voice rise along with the realization. "I could have _saved_ you!"

"Maybe I didn't _want_ to be saved!" Desmond shot back, knocking his shoulder with Alex's as he leaned into the other's face. And Alex blinked, distracted from his rage because Desmond was right _there_; and he was different but he was still Desmond anyway, and Alex clung to that attachment – the voice, the lips, the _everything_ – because there was – there _had_ to be – something there. "I didn't want to be saved," Desmond repeated, not letting his gaze waver from Alex's intense watch; the muscles in Desmond's arms throbbed in their stiffened position and Alex could still feel the closeness – he could still feel something – and, and…

"Why?" Alex whispered.

"During the Outbreak," Desmond stared, not breaking his line of sight despite the wince he got from the other man. "And the year after, with Heller: No one was there to drag you away – to help you, was there?" Alex kept his mouth clamped shut."I never wanted to be protected. Maybe I got sick of protection. My parents, sorry, – _the Farm_," he stressed the word with his typical level of malice, "were there to protect me, and all I saw was restriction. I wanted to do everything by myself." He paused. "It nearly killed me. _They_ nearly killed me. And during the first few days in Abstergo – where the Templars kept me – I would sit up and think, _'When is Alex Mercer going to come crashing through those windows and get me?'_"

"But I didn't show up," Alex supplied, feeling a weight of guilt drop down on him.

"No." Desmond said, after a moment. "No you didn't. So I realized that I really _would_ have to do everything on my own. Sure, there were people who pushed me in the right direction, but, well, you know how _that_ feels; at the end of the day, it's only you and the monsters."

"Did you get them, then? Those monsters of yours?"

Desmond glanced off to the kitchen, then right back at Alex. "I don't know; did you?" He straightened enough to stretch out his back; Alex could feel the muscles contracting, vibrating in a low sounding hum while small pops went off along Desmond's spine. He moved back into his slightly slouching position. "What are you smiling at?" he asked. Alex immediately became aware of his smirk and almost put a hand to his mouth to check, but instead he fisted his fingers together on his lap, restricting movement.

"I… don't know; you just liked to crack your back in the morning. You'd wake up just like that."

"Minus the cup of hard liquor and winter wear, I imagine."

"Well, there were a few odd nights."

"You'll have to tell me about them. Though, I _do_ think there was one time your sister made us go buy _stuff_, for the apartment. Silverware, or something. We ended up in China Town for _hours_. That was fun. Or frightening. Or both."

"It was both."

"_And_ I tried to convince you to get a tattoo once." He made a borderline grimacing face, examining his inked arm. "You hate tattoos."

"I like yours," Alex supplied.

"It gave you something to focus on; you didn't like it until I gave you that sob story and we had sex for the first time." Desmond had, it seemed, regained a bit of life back to him as their conversation went on; maybe it was just the scotch.

"That was a good day."

Desmond reached for the cup by his feet. "I liked it when we went to the park," he mentioned simply, looking into the glass as it was raised to his mouth, as if to drain the rest of it. Then his hand wavered, hesitating, and he instead let the cup sink back down to his thigh. "We could wander around for hours; not even talking because, well, we didn't need to." Alex nodded at that, trying to feel the warmth of the sun and hands on his skin; the memory came to him slowly, full of cobwebs and scratched up, but like he had suspected, there _was_ something there. The dream carried on for a while until he heard Desmond speak up again. "…And those nightmares. The one I came home to." He moved his right hand over so Alex could see it; three pale lines on the side of his hand, reaching towards the palm. "Told you that's all that would be left."

"Did you ever tell _that_ story?"

"I don't think anyone noticed. Too busy looking at the one on my face." Alex hummed passively at that and watched Desmond slowly drag his arm back onto his legs. He stood up, finally finishing his drink as he crossed back into the kitchen, dropping the cup in the sink and staring out the tiny square of glass – the only window in the entire apartment. Snow was starting to fall outside.

"I remember making love with you." Desmond said abruptly, hands braced on the countertops, still looking out at the bad weather. "And it _was_ making love, because if I fuck someone I tend to disappear the next day. I'm not generous. Sometimes I feel horrible afterwards, at least in my head. With you it felt perfect, even if it wasn't. Hell, even if it _hurt_." He sniffed; rubbing at his cheek in an effort to stall his words. "I really think I did love you, then. You were the happiest I could ever hope to get." He turned around, back towards Alex, his face as serious and frozen as when they were back outside an hour ago. "And then they found me, I guess. And things just kind of,"

"Fell apart," Alex offered tentatively, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

"…Yeah."

Alex closed his eyes. "When you knew it was me, why did you start running?" Ahead of him, Desmond spoke up.

"I figured we had nothing to say to each other."

"Honestly?" he furrowed his eyebrows.

"And you found me anyway." Alex heard a one note, bemused laugh. "You really hate leaving unfinished business, huh?"

"You're not a schedule, Desmond. You're not revenge or a target or an unanswered question. You're not a memory I'm trying to chase down." At that Desmond snorted.

"Are you _sure_?" he asked.

"I am. I know better than anyone that you're different now – that my memories are irrelevant – that you aren't the same." But it still… _hurt_, he knew, opening his eyes again. Perhaps that broken look was obvious – either because Desmond could wear the same expression at any moment, or he just _knew_, still knew Alex that well, but Desmond softened a little more, at any rate, and the relief of empathy was shattering.

"Maybe you're still hoping I'm the same." Desmond responded, attempting a gentle tone. "Subconsciously, even if you hide it."

"There'd be no reason to. It's…" Alex swallowed. "It's like you said. I don't _need_ you anymore. I haven't. Not for a long time." He was treading in the deep waters of simple Want and he knew it. "Maybe I _do_ just want closure."

"Closure… isn't a bad thing: Not all memories are bad ones. Sometimes you look back just because you _liked_ them."

Alex nodded. It was as good an explanation as anything. "Well," he said, standing. "What now? I can go, if you like."

"No, no, don't go." So, with that simple statement, Alex did what he was asked and remained there, in the kitchen, swaying a little and glaring at his shoes again because, damn, they had to be the most interesting things in the world at this point, right? For all the time he spent having a staring contest with them. And he was done with thinking that co-dependency was romantic, but, well, maybe, if Alex could say that he wanted anything, he wouldn't have objected to just _seeing_ Desmond for a little while longer. He glowered at his feet until he thought _not_ staring at Desmond would be the one thing that would actually make him mentally snap.

Desmond was just standing, watching the down turn of snowflakes from the grimy kitchen window before turning away in trembling disgust. "It's so cold," he whispered, limbs spaced in an awkward, powerless way.

"I know,"

"And you know, I can't even I can't remember being _warm_ anymore. All I can remember is this. This deadness – this nothingness. It's everywhere I go." He walked a bit closer, as if to move through Alex, but he stopped just short of actually making contact. "Sometimes I think that it's all my fault, anyway. Being a savior isn't easy, but you know that, too, don't you." Desmond closed his eyes for a moment, and Alex gently reached out a hand, barely touching the other's shoulder, wondering what sort of reaction that warranted. But he simply stood there, like a frozen garnish, unwilling to react.

Alex still thought he was beautiful. Depraved and sharp and calloused, but still good. Someone capable of defense and someone who Alex craved to protect anyway. Though he just wanted to protect everyone, now. Desmond didn't need him – Alex didn't need Desmond – not in a conventional sense of needing air and shelter and nourishment, at least. It was something else, something a little above the baseline of things that allowed one to live, instead it was something that made a person _alive_.

"Winter goes eventually," Alex offered in a passive tone. He could feel his warmth slowly dissipating into Desmond's jacket. "Summer comes. Things start living again. Rebirth." It was a cycle Alex had seen several years now, he had unflinchingly seen the Three Great Falls of his home – he had seen his sister grow in tiny minute details until one day he realized that she was thirty one. Now he saw Desmond, still admirable, still beautiful, still unreachable. Vaguely, Alex considered that perhaps he, too, had changed. Most likely. In little ways over the years that he could not comprehend, but he didn't want to think of himself at the moment. Instead he rested his other arm on Desmond's shoulder, the urge to shake him and ask the other man to turn back time long, long gone.

Desmond stared at him. "Things die too soon, Alex."

And Alex knew how that felt, too. Well, wasn't that it? He thought – that was why they had gotten as far as they did six years ago: They were in the same boat, more or less; outcasts and hunted and wary. Now again they stood alike: Different and powerful and alone at the top; hard, winding roads that shaped them both respectively over, and they were left to understand what had happened during that time, trying in vain to pick up scattered pieces. Most people never caught up with main characters after _The_ _End_ for that sort of reason – anything worth hearing about was over and done with, and all you had left was a rattling feeling that signified true, vitriolic emptiness. "I'm still here for the summers – you'll be here when people move back, when things get better. And I'll be here, telling you that." He hesitated a moment before adding, for no other reason other than it just seemed to _fit_; "You… just need a little faith."

Desmond's face clouded before he moved forward and wrapped his arms around Alex's waist, nose hitting somewhere to the right of his collarbone. Desmond wouldn't shake, wouldn't cry, Alex knew they were both half broken, and the fractured states had set so long ago that there wasn't much use in doing anything about it. No, instead he simply crashed into Alex like some invisible button had been pushed.

This, of course, didn't mean the unsettled air between them was fixed. It didn't mean things were normal or Alex had clamored into the inner most sanctum of Desmond's identity with an hour of picking the right words, but they had something. Something as small and insignificant as a biographical affinity or a passing conversation in a random little bar – something to spark, something to lead to one thing which would lead to another.

"Are you okay?" Alex whispered, holding onto Desmond tightly, waiting.

He heard Desmond swallow – felt him pull back until they were no longer touching – except their hands. Somehow Alex's left hand became entangled with Desmond's right, and he felt his skin become overcome by Desmond's chill – unused to giving so much so quickly.

Slowly they seeped into each other's skin, and Alex watched the other man glow with the heat. There was no love in those eyes, but there was recognition, and to Alex that was just as good. "Are you okay?" he repeated.

"…No," Desmond said, shaking his head, as if to rid himself of a ridiculous thought. He clenched his fingers tighter around Alex's for a moment before he displayed a smile. Unassuming and small and a far cry from the grins of Desmond Past – but that was fine – Alex had a feeling that everything was going to be fine. "No, but I can be."

Desmond's smile stayed, and his reassuringly strong grip on Alex's hand stayed, and he had a feeling that Desmond would be staying, too.

_Everything's fine_, Alex thought – maybe not permanently, but for now, everything was fine.

And For Now was the most important, he thought; they thought.

Grabbing Desmond's other hand; Alex spread more of that healing warmth into Desmond's fingers and smiled back.

**[The End]**

**A/N: I started **_**Affinity**_** back in February of last year because there was just not enough Alex/Desmond on the internet. Doing my part to fill some of that void, I came to love this story a lot; adding to it until it grew eight chapters, plus a side story, and over sixty-thousand words in bulk. This is the second multi-chaptered fanfiction I've finished, and the longest thing I've written by fifty thousand words. Is it the best story out there? Heck no, but it's a milestone for me, and I'm proud of where this story took me, in writing abilities and love for what really is just a glorified crackship. I leave with a great round of thanks to everyone who has, hopefully, enjoyed themselves. This part is long enough, however, and there is a lengthier, ego-stroking dedication back in Part One, where I think dedications ought to go.**

**And that, my friends, is it for Alex and Desmond – for now, at least, which isn't exactly a bad place to be. And so, For Now, I will say goodbye.**

**Thank you for reading,**

**-S**


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